Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 48
Table of Contents	Apple Trees Apples blush, then brown where birds stabbed for worms. My trees tempt no one, aged, gnarled, wounded trunks scarred by wind, bowed by weight of fruit we do not eat, leaves speckled yellow spots along gray crooked veins, scabby crazed harbingers of long dark winters until spring sprouts all those white pink blooms of hope.   Richard Dinges, Jr. ©Wicklow Swans in Mokum by CTvM	Bare Trees Bare tree limbs fragment white hillsides, stained glass windows with no color, no glass or panes. Wind free to pass through, trees less frantic now barren of leaves' resistance, open to see the other side, feel north wind cold on my eyes wide open.    Richard Dinges, Jr.	White Pine White pines blur green, brush gray blue into muddy puddles that bleed beneath a fuzzed sun, dark limbs cracked and cragged, jagged edges to stained glass frames, spired trunks and crossed arms, only the peak branch waves gently in an unfelt breeze.    Richard Dinges, Jr__	Rebirth Cicadas drone. Sky grumbles low, long to a horizon's knit brow, sun a wink and gone. Air trembles, thins. Mists rise from dark shadows between still trees. First drops spatter, shudder leaves, rivulets in dust. Then clouds shatter, erase my tiny view of my tiny world. I hold my breath for something new.   Richard Dinges, Jr	Watch Dogs Just when traffic stopped its steady roar and cicadas rasped dry summer breeze, a dog barked, mayhem broken loose from farm to farm. They howled at danger's odor only they could smell, placed their invisible cordon around us, to return order to our steads, frighten away evil spirits, then settle into long dark dog slumber, legs kicking at threats only they can dream.   Richard Dinges, Jr__