By John Grey
Once a morning, one blackbird, on a spruce branch, at attention chanting... I am a great red-winged lover. Sunup on gray tidal flats, caravans of crabs, terns stepping around stones, mussel shoals, deep airtight footprints, not, luckily, an epitaph. Midday cricket patch, chorus chirp, then lulls you almost hear, pages of an album turn, silent babies cry, frozen families laugh, kids are slumped like they've been dumped in some commemorative pose. Evening comes to crows in cypress, black on black, distant snake field palmed by night, common inferences, various affiliations, what I cannot see blinds me. Gulf waters, moon-instructed, moving in, wave by wave, flooding silence with a swish and roll. Head on pillow, sleep comes to all great red-winged lovers.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, Dalhousie Review and Blood And Thunder. Work upcoming in Hollins Critic, Redactions and California Quarterly.