Clouds hang like muddy prints on a sparsely used trail,
huge leaps, barely bridging one print to the next
touching on proud moulds,
to touch Santa’s hemline,
tendrils of solid dew pulsate, vainly for union.
A splayed, false eight fingered hand,
blowing limply against the current,
injecting pocket storms of sepia antiquity in its wake,
closed mushroom exoskeleton torpedo’s,
escape through the murky cover.
Forms reevaluating yet more forms.