by David B. Prather
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.
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.