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Barbara Jordan

02-02-09

Orion

 

Emissaries come from the pond— a red-winged

blackbird and a dog.  Nothing else

yet.  The silence is magnetic.

 

Several days, at dusk,

I’ve hoped to see a moose.  I’m told they appear

where the pine forest stands

half-submerged.  Its shadows are turning

articulate, claiming whole regions.

 

These are the minutes of gauze.  Sky and water meet

and spores; follicles open midair.

 

On the far shore, a rack of black branches

becomes the vortex of expectancy— if it should lift,

from lapping, it’s animal head out of darkness

with eyes gleaming.

 

I resume my petty squabbles with fate,

its patient and subversive tongue; configurations

of loneliness; stars

rattling in a box.

 

                   -from Channel