November Natives

There are scales of ice like armor on that lake’s skin; it’s dying through and through and dark blue.

Below brittle language of limbs flagging a plastic bag surrender, a collection of held breaths comprise a sparse assembly in place of little shelter, native lake. In October’s remaining rustles, an intimation of movement; an intimate mirage, the cluttered shore’s rusted mane a ring of collapsed epilogues in orbiting frost.

There are scales of ice like cataracts on that lake’s eye; it’s blind through and through and light blue.

November is a burst of black birds emerging as shadows skipping along untampered patches. The fragile visage of stillness snaps with their crescendo takeoff; profound, the enveloping shroud, the developing cloud erupting in so many wings lifting on instinct, tandem minds flexing into the sky.

There are scales of ice like continents on that lake’s map; they’re one through and through and infused. Beneath the rime a trickling motion shivers into sight, all outlines and no particulars, there and then gone.

Ethan Phibbs currently resides in the outgrown shoes of his hometown, Jacksonville, Illinois, where he works odd jobs, reads and writes. An avid traveler, he hopes to experience every rich culture our world has to offer. His work is forthcoming in Unbroken Journal, Mulberry Fork Review and Ink In Thirds.

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