Horns do not blare in the early bluster
that switches papered leaves from birthright rest.
Popcorn trees stir in the bleating woodwind
fore the gusting fanfare of carnivore.
Clouds like witches soar across the Worm Moon—
crow-shine dance—from caverns come nightcrawlers:
a sacrifice. Hoofbeat aft the curtain
rising: the steeds blaze from the underworld.
Dusk entombs the dark stillness of winter,
as the night-song quiets before the dawn
of spring that will color the bleak landscape
when life teems within the eye of Horus.

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