Jane Brunton Biography

It’s summer.
Dogs barking in closed cars.

It’s summer.
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What’s he doing at the side of the road?
He’s sleeping In his matted tatted fur,
Weathered leather and crushed bone.
Sleep on squashed squirrel
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A bud! What joy! Fulfillment of life’s purpose.
The never ending circle of life and death and life.
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The world is a frigid waiting room of pebbled glass.
We make the chipping chopping sounds of an ice-storm morn.
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Overhead-passes spit contemptuously at passing cars.
Power lines emerge from dripping silver cocoons.
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