NEVER CHANGES TO STOP ❋ Neil Surkan

The morning started very orange.
The mountains clenched black
and singular and hard
against the sky. With rain
they softened to a blotched
grey, swallowing swallows
when they flew across,
the way the lake accepted
falling drops, or my look
dissolved what you were
about to say. Yellow moss
at the corner of the lawn
mottles then glows spongy
green, with little beads embossed
on top. The longer I stare
the more it shines. I see now
how earnest you were, and kind.