by Jim Esch
a gravestone quiet sky
thanksgiving morning:
a blue jay hurls around the bush,
the scant damp leaves yellowed
scarcely hanging to the stems
astride the deadwood backyard fence
which offers, for a time, some protection
the bird flits out, in, behind the fence–
bracketing some inevitable
decline beyond its reach, the rows
of neighbors’ backyard borders
a stand of wooden domino defenses,
stoic, muted, listening at the doorway,
a mass of wind rushing
cold through wet trees.
WILLOWS WEPT REVIEW 