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)