The nights are cold, the days hot.
A sign of things to come
Granny always said she hated this time of year.
She said it was the season of dying and death,
Pretty flowers would bloom no more
until the sun returned with life anew,
The mountains obligated to be desolate
after the Mother demands tribute.
Some might say the mountains afire is a thing of beauty,
Granny said that’s just like somebody saying
how good a corpse looks, or how pretty a coffin is,
and there’s nothing pretty about it.
It’s nothing but death, pure and simple.
A sure sign of things to some.
Shots From Astoria
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