Wednesday, March 20, 2013

Crossing the yard


Three times now I’ve seen them.
Crossing the yard
but three weeks ago
led, leashed by the dog
to the solemn Norway spruce
that celebrates mass
and blesses her gifts
the third such that morning.
Enamel blue sky
after a three day snow
precise transverse incision
above the southern horizon
inscribed by a thieving sun
that pockets the night
in minute slivers we’ll never miss. 
Motor drone, born full term
into silence, triplets
soothing themselves
a low hymn sung in one voice
gracing the frame
at three o’clock
tacking west to skirt the zoo
slender as books
of stillborn poems
wing spans a third again or better
the length of each slippery yellow lozenge
nosing ahead
through an alphabet
of airy proverbs
hacked to pieces in prop wash.
Details, details
the devil detained at the boarding gate
pilots banking for a final run
feathering sticks
dipping wings
in blessed watery sunlight
haloed crosses peeling off
one, two, three
the dog and me
crossing this temporal vail
one shy of a triumvirate. 

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