Friday, January 8, 2016


    There were bits of
    Wetness, drops of rain,
    Mist mostly, riffling
    The pool, coots tucking
    Their heads beneath
    Their wings and dreaming.
    Beyond was machinery

    And beyond that empty
    Fields where a farmer
    Used to plant and live-
    Stock stood in corrals,
    Waiting.  I leaned out
    Toward the rusted wire
    And dark clouds leaned in,

    Expanding my equivocation.
    A set of crows twisted
    Their heads, watching.
    I stepped back and turned
    Toward a red tailed hawk,
    Not just in the wet sand
    But in steps we’d made.

    Love can be like that when
    It’s old and mostly gone –
    A long row of steps –
    But not so many as to
    Make this more than
    Its plight -- taking its
    Last breath on its last night.

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