Photos captured by : Gwen Moiles (@gah_when) 

Words assembled : Spring 2017

At the house on the corner, 
the jasmine rises up and over the fence,
shimmies up the siding,
submerges the roof in vines.

The perfume–

heady, floral–

fills us.

The trumpeter lets out a peal of admonishment–
brassy trills that vibrate through the air
zig-zagging
careening
into our hearts,
staying there for just a moment– 

and then flitting back out into the humid almost-dawn.

The roof caves under the vines
buckling in its incense
windows clear of glass, 
smog, smudge, obscurities.

A cat preens,
stretches in the bending u of the frames. 
The trumpeter ceases his swan song.
The light rises and casts shards– 

a reflection a mirroring

a dereliction.