The tack coat of dawn gives way to the scumble of morning.
Dawn. Hot pink rubbed over midnight blue. Sudden lightning. My dog in my arms, trembling.
A rabbit appears out of nowhere like a lost thought. I think of an old friend.
Some folks decorate their porches but never sit on them.
Little man down there putting away your grill, come out of your garage and look up.
Some people kill birds. Others put out bird feeders.
Tonight’s sunset turned the sky into a cauldron. Below, a thrasher the color of depleted soil foraged quietly beneath a sapling.
Birds define the air.
How do you see the air without the bird? Assume there are no trees.
The cowbells follow one another / Into the distances of the afternoon. — James Wright
In the sky, a great heron goes unnoticed by lovers on a picnic.
A tender young boy watches a pair of red-winged blackbirds as his friends taunt him.
A scissor-tailed flycatcher perches on a stop sign until I get too close with my camera.
The verses are in the land, in the trees before they became paper, in our hearts before they were rewritten by language.
I used to think to be not alone meant / never having to walk through the high wheat / or struggle in the water. — Allison Seay
I just saw a man texting while driving a tractor down a major thoroughfare.
I might be getting too involved with the animals who live in my yard.