A couple of lanky teens shoot
                           hoops in the fine mist
of a cloudy afternoon. It’s winter
                           but warm, and there
are three small children plotting
                           world domination
in the volleyball sand court,
                           perfect for building
castles and tearing them down.
                           I drive past the park,
wipers on intermittent, the way ahead
                           clear for a moment.
Fractal treetops cut the gray
                           sky, reach out
to tear their way through to the sun
                           we all know is there,
burning off all that furious light.
                           Let them take over,
those pigeons gathered above us on wires,
                           making themselves
symbolic. The number of birds seems
                           to dwindle daily.
I’ve let grasses and wild
                           flowers go to seed
along the backyard fence where
                           occasionally I find
a feather, and spiderwebs
                           sometimes covered
with dew, and finally, frost.

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David B. Prather is the author of We Were Birds from Main Street Rag Publishing. His poetry, essays, and reviews have appeared in several print and online journals, including Prairie Schooner, Colorado Review, Poet Lore, Seneca Review, Gyroscope Review, River Heron Review, and many others. He studied acting at the National Shakespeare Conservatory, and he studied writing at Warren Wilson College.

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