17 May 2015

untitled poem, IV


I looked square at the red winged blackbird.
His dark was rest in the hollow worked by the musclewood tree.
He looked back at me.
We watched each other’s chests rise and fall.
Then I told him, “ain’t no way this horse is gonna win the Triple Crown,
cuz every horse I ever laid money on’s lost.”
The wind off the marsh I had to lean into.

“This won’t be no different,” I sighed. Shook my head.

He told me, “every time I take air or ground it’s a gamble, friend.
My only rest is in a tree.”
I looked at reverent cattails and we listened to the wind.
The whole world bent.
Whitecaps rebelled,
pointing upward in channels of water cleft between tall grasses.
“Yeah,” I said. “You got that right about the tree.”
He let his head fall, and he flew away.

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