Above the road’s dead grass and gravel,
beneath the raftered lattice of tree limbs,
one crow cries, high and shrill. Some days
there’s nothing intermediate, only
the line that cleaves between suspension
and release. I’ve walked from back
door to gate to rutted street.
And the times I’ve done it over—
the bees fluting their heady pollen
one season, the moths tearing
their shrouds at dusk. When I
come in, sometimes I peel
the burr off the hems of pants,
and twilight has come to rest
its arms on the window ledge.
—Luisa A. Igloria
02 24 2011
In response to today’s Morning Porch entry.