Rachel Dacus The 2River View, 7.2 (Winter 2003)


Thirty-three hundred wing beats a minute
—in figure eights from those jointed hands—
keep the ghostly wings
hovering between worlds.
To see them folded and the bird
a minuscule sphinx on a maple twig
was something like seeing time
suspended. Eternity’s long beat.
A clawed foot lifted
and pawed behind what must
have been an ear. Christmas trees whirling!
The throat feathers flashed red, green,
red—an indecisive stoplight
gone wild, freezing me,
then just

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