Prayerful of feathers


Late winter and ducks parade on our roof
off key instruments play down each chimney
the aged clay pots a fluted wobble of tone

while they wait for the youngest to realize
the distant brush of brackish view

over to the wetlands water seized on crema

there must be a fortune to a reason
ocean winds the salt lace of their bearings
folded up backs to the bluster of straits

between the evaporating hill farms
cast and caught by new cube design
their glassy landed insertions reflecting
the unchained sea’s background of grace
to the turbines safe off before the gale

that first year I complained why stop here
now thirsty for the gift of their landing
me honking through a tuft of hands, stay.







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