JUNCO IN JUNKYARD


 

Obsidian-eyed, she wheels

and flits past pitted bumpers

through the monotones of engine blocks

and peeling limousines; lights pertly,

preens, then on a delicate flexed wing

sideslips precisely like a

seamstress threading a needle.

A breath; she banks; is gone.

 

So others who seem weathered gray

may strike a second’s rustproof

pose, or flash an instant’s covert

whites.  It’s accidental grace

that gleams -- reprising

what’s been lost, what won.



Version first published in Apiary X (2019); reprinted in full in The Federal Poet, Vol. LXXV No. 2 (Fall 2019)