by David Chorlton
Swallows at the windswept pond
this morning, quick as good fortune, make the light
sway back and forth above
the water while it keeps
its secrets dark.
It’s a quiet time;
Say’s Phoebes barely clear the grass before
returning to the fence from which they came,
and a Loggerhead Shrike moves down
from the desert
with a prayer in his beak.
The Red-tailed Hawk
has made the streets his hunting ground
where the pigeon flock
scatters left, right and skyward
as his shadow scythes between them.
One more day;
another step toward
the unknown, with a moodswing peak
to peak along the mountain
as it leans back against the sky. A different
message blows
from each direction: another
ten killed in Colorado; the doves
returning early from the tropics; music
on the radio so old
it wouldn’t recognize the world today;
and the voice within, too long
in solitude to know
what its next word should be.
Throughout the pandemic David Chorlton has lived quietly and communicated with the local wildlife. His new book Unmapped Worlds from FutureCycle Press features poems that hid in his files for too many years and which now enjoy new exposure.
