Les plus lus ▸
Dave Bonta
Right at dusk, as always,
I overhear myself: a drone note
audible in the lull
between shifts of crickets.
Darkness rises from the ground
between the corn stalks,
which are anything but still.
I step deliberately, one season
on each foot. Today left a crust
of salt around my collar,
lifted now by a passing breath
of wings. I don’t look up.
Four quick cries & a pause,
then two more: Estiquirín.
The hoe handle digs
a furrow in my shoulder
I fish till night
kindred to the scarecrow
my quiet oaths
corn is ripe somewhere.
a warehouse of scarecrows?
soup after prayers.
April is gone,
Summer is a second season,
The landscape is now;
There is no reason
For past or future thinking,
The plow lies in the shed,
And the land is dead
To all motion save the slow
Brilliant blossoming of summer.
Only later will the furrowed brow
Perceive the seasons' separations
And remember and understand
Harsh imprint of spring.
Then a scarecrow will look down
Longingly on creation
And with snowfall, fall