Lynn Ciesielski’s poem Longest Light appeared here in June (2013).
Sunday Ride at Dusk
By Lynn Ciesielski
With hopes of viewing short-eared owls,
we drive to Iroquois Preserve.
You see a bin tumbling from a truck onto the road.
We swerve to miss it but our words collide instead.
I want to pick the radio station, though yours just played
my favorite song.
Our chatter dies next to a smattering of gravestones
on someone’s lawn.
we drive to Iroquois Preserve.
You see a bin tumbling from a truck onto the road.
We swerve to miss it but our words collide instead.
I want to pick the radio station, though yours just played
my favorite song.
Our chatter dies next to a smattering of gravestones
on someone’s lawn.
Across a sky turning from azure to mango to indigo,
geese fly in formation on their way to spring.
Three metal crosses rust near the road
while a steeple rises skyward atop a church.
Stained glass windows illustrate the sacred text.
Tented tin buckets hang from maples collecting sap.
Scrub from a corn crop mars the landscape.
We scatter a few words, birdseed on desiccated grass
but conversation, like the owls, eludes us.
