Thanksgiving wind

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.

Jim Esch lives in West Chester, Pennsylvania, and teaches writing and literature at Widener University. His recent work has appeared in Mad Swirl, juked, Cezanne’s Carrot, The Quiet Feather, and Idlewheel.

Back to Issue One: Fall 2008