A lone ricebird perches
on the shoulder of the water buffalo.
Three of them, four, twenty:
flotilla of wings against the sky.
How many would it take,
before their weight felt like a burden?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
A lone ricebird perches
on the shoulder of the water buffalo.
Three of them, four, twenty:
flotilla of wings against the sky.
How many would it take,
before their weight felt like a burden?
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.
it is certain you’ll travel to what waits
ahead: not the intersection with its lights
already changing, not the fringe of rain-
spattered fields nor the road unbuckling
toward dusk. Even the lone truck you might hear
starting and stopping, engine running as if on
empty, will fade from sight. Just like
at the optometrist’s, when the technician
asks you to look through the viewfinder
and straight ahead at the red barn
with a silo and no stick weathervane. Then
she’ll blow a puff of air into your open
eyes, before sliding the window down.
In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.