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SKIING ON THE LAST DAY OF SNOW |
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| LAST THOUGHTS
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Five birds on the very top
of a bare tree head.
The birds are black.
They're like the last thoughts
before we die.
Like the lost notes that didn't work
in a Beethoven piano sonata,
or the leftover punctuation
after someone pulls apart a novel
and puts it back together.
The extra parts.
They look like late clinging leaves
that need a good wind
to shake off the glue.
But still I can make out their birdness---
the quiet sitting, the wing lift
to peck under.
And they will fly off.
Not one by one, but all together,
at the sound of the propane bird blasters,
used to scare them away
from the last ice wine grapes.
Fly together at the sound
of death walking into my house
as he slams the door behind him.
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from The Wind is a Tall Man Striding
watershedBooks
2000
Copyright © Jim Slominski |
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