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On the road by the arena, puddles fill ditches and flaxen rushes wave in March rain. Frail flick-weed bursts seeds at the slightest touch of bird-wing or shoe. Gray as bark, a wren perches on a rain-beaded forsythia stem. * Heads bent, they weep into cold tan grass, as if lamenting their lemon hair dimmed to dull suns in the misty yard: daffodils in the rain * On Good Friday afternoon the dead tree at 3 pm, ragged and bare in cold sun blooms with clusters of brown leaves: seven squirrels’ nests. * A hawk perches on a street lamp as two finches flutter hover, swoop in and slam the tufted feathers of its nape beaks aimed at its eyes. * Across a highway, a butterfly flits dips, red wings shoved by the car-winds, barrel-rolled by a truck, it rights itself and makes the spring pines beyond.
Peter Blair’s collections of poetry include Farang (Autumn House, 2010). He lives in Charlotte, North Carolina.
Copyright 2021 Peter Blair