The mountain looks over my shoulder
and points out spelling mistakes
in the manuscript a friend asked me to read
for plot and character continuity.
The speed reading wind
attempts to flip pages faster and faster
as if it has somewhere to be
hours after the fog was blown from the field.
The fireplace still wears a glow
of that second wine bottle
consumed to celebrate and mourn
all the flora and fauna I find as fossils.
Their preserved bodies lay in the strata
within your story’s petrified breath.
copyright © 2018 Kenneth P. Gurney