Jules Green

NOVEMBER 2007: POETRY Bird Tired, chest out, she will not leave this morning, a blue fall day among the rainy ones. Maybe she will make it beyond this window this evening to a pile of damp rust leaves or the paler ones that cling to the trees in conscientious blushes and defiant greens. Squatting, forehead to pane, the wind doesn't ruffle her cheeks. The smell of coffee, made by someone else, lingers at her knees, not the smell of raw…