not a pretty picture. not a good. not a bad. picture. but an argument.

Monday, April 4, 2016


between equinox and solstice

the corn is a cleric's carnival of cranes.
crouched beside it i feel flagellated 
by their arcane ardor, 
this occult gathering, 
these ashen cowl covered brothers
each like the next,
extending ladders and lowering themselves
into the antiquity of gold rush beside me.
i am only a person. i can't see far.
but wave after wave of flock
advances, then cuts itself short,
descending, disappearing into the folds
but for the cries.
what do they cry of? 
i am only a person. i can't think far. 
but as they descend so willingly
into the embrace of fields turning to dust
all i can think is - how this otherworldly trust
gravely thrust downward  
from the unceded heavens
toward earth?