Page 39 - The Woven Tale Press Vol. V #3

Sisyphus, Birding
Neither nightingale nor lark linger.
They do not edge the turning of the light, of which there is so little. Here,
it is always the minuscule noon of Pluto, dim glow with neither day nor night. Nor any other songbirds lurk
in my unpunctuated gloom.
Nor raven, nor blackbird.
Not horned owl, hummingbird, swan. Nor any of the orders of aves.
Morose minstrels of mistiness, mending nothing, sing endless
sullen songs of their damned hearts
as they wind along switchbacks below. Lately I can barely hear the beat
of my own useless breath upon stone.
Adair has been published in Shot Glass Journal, Linden Avenue Literary Journal, and Apex Magazine.
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