Olive pitted tears.

I watch comets forged from ash trail the sky,
Through a screen.
Another watches from her window ledge.
We both cling to our seats.

​

They wail, shrill and bleak,
Till the silence of fire comes to speak.
It rolls towards the fields,
The hunger of heat.

​

The flames dance beneath the trees,
The branches wring their hands with worry,
Olive pit tears lace the ground
And call upon the doves of the day.
A shroud of white coats the night.

​

She watches on as I turn to switch the lights,
Missing the dove that comes to her ledge.

​

It claws against the concrete, carving a memory.
It stares through her eyes
and lifts its wings.
To reveal the black coat of a crow,
Dusted with the phosphorus of planes.

​

An olive pit placed within its beak,
The hunger of heat.