Heading home, toward the sun;
its long drawn-in breath of twilight,
sucking the last gasps of birds
toward its mouth,
I glimpse a flock of sparrows,
gathered up in squalls
to forage the last bruised fruits of summer,
and know winter is approaching.
Waves of starlings and ocean spray
splashing across the sky,
gust like the rib of a wind sock,
a white sheet falling
upon winged chairs,
saying time has come to head South.
Seeking comfort among circles,
when the weather turns
and daylight dwindles,
they gather at dusk,
With cropped wings, bank the air
then swoop down to roost
like the evening’s frost
condensing on the trees.
It is the ebb of Summer, its last glimmer;
The sweeping undertow of geese
disappear in the dusk
and are swallowed by the sun, like a river,
drowning every echo from our mouths.
Copyright © john tansey | Year Posted 2019
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