My fall was so gradualit went unnoticed, like crows-feet eyesnot fond of mirrors or the slowleak of hours requiring an extra daycome February. Crows can flyand we manipulate time to recognizeseasons but that woman is unfamiliar,the one in the sweater, arms crossedagainst October chill. After twelveleap-years you’d think I’d sprout wings,take a shot at the sun, evolve. But I’mno leapling and prefer the shade,leggy and shorn of blooms. Plus,it’s simpler to languish than to flyand be recognized, belly feathersto frostbitten ground, a fallen womanbeckoning inward for returned Grace.
Late entry for Karin's prompt to the Real Toads: FALLING INTO LINES
