by George Brooks
The specters of winter, every bit
as much as robins, they are the harbingers of spring.
Behind the north sides of buildings and sedimentary cars
on lawns, and where the streetplow leaves its mounds,
doggish and sheepish, they emerge
like Moses from his marble: mute
precocial: fully formed,
and slowly shrinking away.
diunrnal: running wet at noon,
and freezing still every night.
trashy: sweating gravel, soot, leaf bits,
shopping bags and the paste of paper,
Until not much else remains.
And we walk past, trying to ignore them
where they lie, hoping they disappear soon.
But in the afternoon, a bell will ring,
releasing an infantry of nine-year-olds to scatter
and kick them to pieces on their way home.
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Originally from Utah’s Wasatch Front, George Brooks moved to Reno last year to study in UNR’s Literature and Environment program. His work has appeared in Main Street Rag and Hawk & Whippoorwill. |
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