Friday, May 26, 2017

Fletcher

I stood beside the night river,
water flecked with dancing light.
A gleam appeared, a moon sliver,
suddenly: dark bird in flight.

I shot arrowed eyes after that bird
til silver tears obscured my sight
trying to glean unspoken meaning
held at the core of a bird in flight.

As I aimed my eyes, I thought:
This is what it means to die;
dark birdform winging, noiseless,
across a purple twilight sky.

Those still living left as archers
to watch that dim arrow at night
craning our necks to follow the going
until it finally moves beyond sight.