Outside my window, in the apprehension of morning,
a decaying wooden shrine—
sanctuary for winter birds,
sways in the hard breeze, empty, neglected.
I pull on an old gray sweatshirt,
forsake creativity for woolen gloves,
leave the necessity of my writing desk
and venture out to a cold January yard.
A naked birch dangles jagged bronze catkins,
like spiny gold ghosts, over the barren loft.
It twists and dips in the wind
as I organize my thoughts.
A fruitless plum tree, littered with hungry doves
cooing poetically,
waits for me, to dip a wrinkled paper cup
into the half-full bag of plump seeds.
A murder of crows,
like black rags scattered across the pale red sky,
argue at dawn with bitter shrieks,
escape at sunrise,
and remind me to return.
Contributors
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Sean Reynolds
I was born near Los Angeles, caught frogs in the concrete stream-bed of the LA River, played hide-and-seek at midnight through the dark urban forest of Griffith Park, blushed at whores and debated Jesus freaks on Hollywood Boulevard, followed Sunset to the ocean, cried on the pier and fell in love then started I to live again. |
