Thursday, October 14, 2004

Owls Head

The terror of birds at the ungreen saps
warmth from the air, palpable as the stone
taken from this mountain, now damp
in your hand, stealing heat from your body.

You walk beneath a flock of grackles staging
their getaway--nervous, rusty-hinge clucks
erupt into a chorus of screeches as they shudder
upwards, dark cloud on grey wheeling above the flames.

Higher up, lost in the low cloud ceiling, geese
circle for hours, honking themselves hoarse
in their fervor to flee the lurid scene.

At the top, you hear a gang of adolescent crows
mob an owl. They're drunk on red and orange
wine and will need all winter to get sober.


paula said...

I am back and pleased to read your latest posts.
I like this pictorial-musical autumnal poem, privilege the last stanza. To get sober of colors: I do like it a lot.

Also liked the trible language experiments.
What words to express words? Ah!


Peter Garner said...

Hi Paula. Glad you liked. Y'know, I'm looking at that last line of Buscando and asking myself, what the heck does it mean ;-) I might have to revisit that. Ciao bella.