Weather There is a false spring here, and the sky yellowsWeather by `AbCat
around the edges, where the hills are molten
cowpats steaming over the bay. Butterflies
erupt from a south facing wall, and bees sway
leaden to oozing flower beds. At the end
of Wood Lane the air is quiet and birdshit
rots aborted leaves in a puddle above
a drain. Barefooted, the foxes avoid it
by a good two yards. Flies, who once batted
suicidally within frosted panes, waft
carefree around the concept of glass, to roam
over tanned masonry unhindered until
next week’s snowfall, after which just the naked
footprints of foxes and masochists remain.
Defeated 
Sta.sh
