Wednesday Poem

a flock of black birds bursts across

the gray sky above a late fall dawn, then

splits in two like a pair of receivers

heading for opposite sidelines.

I’m not much of a defender this morning.

let everything score – let the last roses kick

field goals, let the tall, wide-shouldered deodars

plunge over the horizon again and again.

watch how in the far pits the sturdy clouds

hunker down against the blitzing light

while perky pyracanthas strut their orangey stuff.

already there is traffic noise as some fans

have left the game before it’s over, yet nobody loses.

it’s like that moment at a great stadium when

you’re going off to the john or to get a beer

and you pause on the cold gritty concrete to hear
the vast, informing silence that coaches everything.
.
by Nils Peterson