Thursday, October 06, 2005


This morning at the same bend,
the same surprising scene.
I see the first sparkling before
the next three, which bloom
into a whimsy of white glyphs
on the too bright green lawn -
the point of the interstate deemed decorous.
Bent-necked cow birds, soft molds
of patience, irony of nature.
No cows and no cow bells,
only the idle of engines
above their soft pose.
Silently they till, their claws
clutch at sod, they empty
themselves in a flurry of fertilization.
How one replaces another.

2005 TAWhite

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