Page 18 - Vol. VII #8
P. 18

 on these lonesome nights. 11
Common Poorwill
Little bird,
You sleep still, so still. I’ve tried to keep you
warm, but my meat
leans on thin skin. You were supposed to wake with springtime sun the way
breath wakes song in wooden flutes. The world is not how it was. Green
is the new white and bugs
now adorn candles to calm dusk’s fights.
Little bird,
common is the new belong.
Here are your brethren brushed
upon desert hills. Here are paper moths
who curse no name. Just because fear ice-chests my veins doesn’t mean
warm winds won’t come
your way. Wake your torpid
heart, for shame is just an
apology in disguise. Little bird, little bird,
someday you will see the way time
paints mountains red and how water
falls in homage to the land. My rib-rock perch was never so snug, yet still
you lie. Here
filaree landscapes each mound. Here trees forsake
bark and make way
for your crest, dapple brown and grey. Yes, bobcats may feast and winter
sleeps. And yes, sleep hurts less than summers
of drought.
But these stars come
and they come for you. Little bird,
please wake. Some of us,
too, have become nocturnal like you,
and it would be nice to hear you call back
Zane DeZeeuw

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