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
and, in sighing,
breathed her sweet breath into the
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
until soon, all are gone.
The final starling has chased after
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.