Robin York © 2007 All Rights Reserved
The two birds flew behind us and one circled back for you.
I was sure it was an eagle, wishing — as I do always —
for a more majestic world.
We can want that, can’t we? A life
made larger by what we hope for? Like the possibility
that strangers will arrive where they need to be so they can meet.
When we walked under the Spanish moss after 10 years of winter
and you sat next to me on the log in the sun, unmistakably
the little night heron’s gray-blue
blended perfectly with the bayou’s sheen.
A wind from the Gulf glazed the live oak’s leaves.
A stand of palmettos announced our awkwardness
with the clatter of their fans.
Jennifer Wallace is co-publisher at Toadlily Press and poetry editor at the Cortland Review. She teaches at the Maryland Institute, College of Art and has worked in prisons and with homeless kids. Her poems appear in or will soon appear in the Potomac Review, Barrow Street, Zone 3, Poetry Kanto and the HazMat Review.
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