(29 June 2011)
against the evening sky
while others wheel, swoop
and turn. The clouds make
the truth plain – racing from
the West, loaded with the
forecast rain. These martins seem
to know there's no time to lose.
In just a few minutes I'll likely
feel the first raindrops splash
warm on my face. By then,
the martins will be far
to the East, their faint cries
receding like the shrilling
of phone lines in the wind.
No way to tell what calls
They carry. After they're gone,
I'll be rooted here, waiting
for the western rain to wash
away my memories. And any
remaining unrepented sins.
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Your Special Talent for Sleeping
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Loss
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