Far away, a rooster crows 
and crows, unsure of the time 

of day. It's the end of another 
year: early dark, frugal

sun; red-green veins
of poinsettia unsettling

the usual blankness of the yard.
The future is the tiniest

blue-gray wing, flicking   
through the canopy;  

I cannot see the color
of its crest, nor

the white bars striping 
its back. When we light fires

in the dark, some words
return to our mouths 

with such tenderness; 
I can't tell them apart 

from the double-noted calls 
going in and out of the leaves.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.