We saw them first
last evening -- two,
spiralling up
a column of late
sunlight, then,
tilting away
from each other
in a floating stagger
through the early
summer leaves --
a jittery dipping,
dropping, rising --
one coming
to rest a moment
on the still warm
roof of our fat
pagoda lantern,
the other on weathered
deck rail;
the tips of its
long antennae
beaded and bright;
wings black,
white dot
and blue dot,
and barred aslant
with orange red,
laid flat,
then clicking shut
to dull grey sail,
then opening again.
Now, it's morning;
you've gone to work.
The air gleams,
dry and clear,
almost Greek,
and a half dozen
admirals sip
from the lilac blossoms,
still signalling
their unsayable
story. One
lights on my shoulder
as I hang the day's
laundry on the line,
shirts and drawers,
dull socks,
our flapping colors
answering his.
He's weightless,
this migrant --
a small, wild
scrap of grace --
and I'm his resting
post on the way
to whatever far
edge of creation
breathes at the tips
of his wings. |
