White Spur Deluge
hex the moon silent. These storms
move quickly, pummel the land in their wake.
Chicks are blown from nests.
Come day, starlings will steal those shattered strands,
raise
their young on the marl of bone and twig.
An old truck parked under a cottonwood tree,
blood red, oxidized, long forgotten and pocked
by sap dropped along
the windshield, animals seeking shelter
on the relics of old leather seats,
a stolen radio’s dangling cables.
to rethink their destinations, ride like lightning
to their distances, their porch lights already flickered
dark.
Love this, she makes me want to travel to places that I never thought about. Excellent writer.
ReplyDeleteI enjoyed this, Tobi. A nature poem, maybe, but I appreciated also the radio and the broken cords!
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