The Meadow, in the Morn

written at the big meadow at cherokee park



The meadow in the morn

spiced with sage and the remains of the year,

covered in gentle frost

like a grandmother’s shawl

and ready to retire for the long

blessed sleep,

has sighed

and, in sighing,

breathed her sweet breath into the

field

scattering the starlings to the wind.



The starlings, in turn,

dashed away, some to the oak

and some to the sycamore,

still others to points beyond

the meadow,

until soon, all are gone.



Save one.

The final starling has chased after

a crow

whose lonely call over the field

spoke to the emptiness that had begun

to overtake this pasture

on this early winter’s morn.



So now, this starling and this crow

have jumped and soared,

waltzed on the wind and

swung across the sky,

two dancers, two dances

gently embrace above this lonely meadow

on this no longer lonely morn.