Sunday, September 23, 2012
The hawk fell into a sweep over the wetlands, rust-bellied and sleek. The dust was thick, you could feel it in your lungs. It had substance. The light was unbroken, the sun direct and blinding. You watched it dance the wind into an orange glow. A pair of meadowlarks leapt from an old fence post. In the next second, a splattering of red-winged blackbirds and then utter calm. You sat as night climbed day and the dusk lay thick in the valley. For a second, time stopped and you could feel yourself lurch, like walking in an airplane. The night sounds started, a quiet symphonic anarchy. Night wins. Every time.
Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)
Beautiful, JD, abso-flipping beautiful. Was right there.ReplyDelete
Thanks Jo. Cleansing my palate. ;)Delete
that is exactly how it seemed ;))Delete
JD, another poem that starts in the throat, sinks to the belly and rises finally to sit in the soul. I hope you'll put out an anthology.ReplyDelete
Having grown up in the boonies, I feel you've captured some of my own longing for that kind of closeness to the earth and her critters. Thanks.
Thank you, Erin. These little pieces will make it into a collection when I can afford it. There is a collection of some of my short works, "Please, no eyes." available on Kindle.Delete
I grew up in a lot of different places, but I love the tranquil quiet of forests, streams, lakes, and closed eyelids most of all.
PNE is mostly urban, but not entirely.