Dead-Eye

Obliging black arms, crooked fingers cut freezing as they reach for winter greys, blues of sky- The trees are framed within her eyes green as last Summer's carpet. Embroidery of native life. Mulish winds sweep lands...violence loved, admired. A milled earth is hushed to lull, charm. Blue wings soft as May fold into the afternoon chill. A chalk sun throws gold dust into a sketch; a raped land is the captive of oppression; false- hoods, folly, darken the tenets that twist and break in the immoral wind.