The moon disappears
and the unnamed
bird twits above
in a tree. A sharp thwack
echoes from the street.
Woodpecker staccato.
Cardinals sail and the rooster
next door has quieted.
Furry bumblebees
hover near the wood—
my pink shirt a beacon.
Smell of flowers and pungent
pollen—the bird chatter
endless as if they will
never find what they hope
to find. What they innately
know they should have.
That song. Shouldn’t I have
all of this? It’s not panic,
just reassurance.
The cell phone blings
a message. The laptop
glows its warning—battery
is critical.
Anne Graue
Contributor
Anne Graue is the author of Fig Tree in Winter (Dancing Girl Press, 2017), and has published poems in literary journals and anthologies, including The Book of Donuts (Terrapin Books), Plath Poetry Project, One Sentence Poems, and Rivet Journal.
