Clinton, Iowa.
McDaid
the dark and gnarled branches
Path to the Old Tree and the last of its leaves trying in vein to hold on to the past
Reaching out into the cold light of morning.
Laying in wait…
the stone sentinel wet with the breath of morning.
Metal cold holding back the past
the glow of light in the fog clenching the brittle remnants of sunshine
the cold house of lives forgotten
the path
the end…
