Predation

There was no clear move. 
Flamethrowers were on the way�"� 

and I was looking, 
backward. 

A fragile truce with the 
clouds. They had abandoned�"� 

the sky and were wringing�"� 
the neck of mountains. 

Compromising with the painted lips 
of winter, my secret was out. 

I was shivering in the crowd 
of moon-gazers.