Friday, May 26, 2017


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.


  1. What a beautiful poem! I am watching birds on a lake this morning. Your poem catches in my throat.

    1. I wrote a golden shovel with your line, "water flecked with dancing light."

      Dawn skims the water
      waiting wings flecked
      with light, the heron with
      his long bill dancing
      pulls forth breakfast breaking light

  2. All that bird watching is showing up in your poems! A hauntingly beautiful poem.

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