trout

Melody of the Cold Front

David Eggleton

Windows frame land
while seed pods drift,
stump by tree-stump.
Roads wind around
the earth like vines.
In rainforest,
slugs dangle the slow
spittle of lassoes.
Spiders twist up
trapped cave weta.
The river's a
mucus snail-trail
for bats and hawks.
Whipped hail is formed
at sea to seethe
out of the south
on salty air,
driving inland,
making each town
hum weather's song,
before leaving
trickles of silence,
frost-fragment tones.