Hackberries bend the light, the brush
beneath prodigal with edge and thorn,
dust sifting cool and fine between bare toes.
The lead cow found her way here
fifty years ago, the others plodding
after. You want to follow
as on the first day, not knowing
the twists and turns beyond, just
agarita, huisache, mesquite, the dapple
of shadow and sun, ahead the stir
of something not quite audible—
like an alphabet for mockingbirds,
their vibrant singing silenced—
a voice not quite remembered,
the lilt of German rippling easy
Texas vowels, bright chorus
of her and her widow friends
at home over coffee and cake:
Breathe once against a windowpane,
touch the vapor warm against the cool
glass. Step back and watch your fingerprint
for the moment that it lasts, the imprint
of breath against the reedy
instrument humming in her throat.
Gone. Except in dreams that yield
to waking silence, to mossy branches
sifting ambered light, pools of paleness
lapping the shadows here, a trail
unfurling homeward through
bottomland silt of the Agua Dulce.
Wingbeats II: Exercises and Practice in Poetry
Dos Gatos Press, 2014
A Note About This Poem:
I used "An Alphabet for Mockingbirds" as an example to illustrate "Energy of Three: Unity and Imbalance in the Tercet," my poetry writing exercise for Wingbeats II.
