Mating Call
A week of whirling glory:
day and night
massed clouds of shad flies spinning
in sexual frenzy stir the indigo clarity
of the just-set sun.
Afterwards, drawn to the porch light,
they cling to the bright white side of the house,
slender grey profiles of stillness
stark in death.
At breakfast, my eye catches half a wing,
snagged in the dew-damp grass, fluttering
in morning's first breath.
YOU ARE READING
The Risks of Remembrance
PoetryIn Ann's poetry, images become language; a language that directly grips the observer/reader. We come to know by the word and by the image. Like Plato’s cave we get glimpses of light among the shadows. –Jane Burns, painter/printmaker Ann Elizabeth C...
