Downcast
raven shadows
cross the ground
rain stains
a sagging gate
heavy-headed
grasses kneel
shorn sheep
shiver and bleat
Molt of the Great-tailed Grackle
Sans iridescent sheen.
Sans swashbuckle and swagger.
All the showbiz,
all the shimmy and strut,
all the whistles, clicks, and clucks,
all gone. Blotched birds
wallow in the dust
or poke around the yard
in shoddy underwear.
Even the dogs look the other way.
Shadow of Wings
What will it be like to open that door
if when I do a folded piece of paper
drops to the floor, and I bend down
to pick it up and see my name?
Remember the first day of junior high
gripping the colorless plastic tray
queasy, uncertain where to sit
in that sea of kids?
Or younger, standing at the porcelain sink
milky-white as a pre-dawn sky
hands cupped to catch the water fall?