Simmons B. Buntin
Safehouse
Against the moon, bruised
in ruddy eclipse,
I find the thorntree's nest
abandoned, a tangle
of bluestem & sage.
Last spring the mourning
doves fled the battered roost,
the brood lost
early, shells weathered
to white dust. New seekers
now, as sparrows tease
the bent leaves & mottled
wrens weave moonlight
to madness in their quick
& raucous wit.
The laughter calls
the great-horned owl,
cast like a gargoyle
on the horizon of rooftop-
eyes red as the shadowed
moon, as the earth's own
waning. A low cry
& the songbirds drop
to cold silence,
the nest cracked open
to the ravenous night-
the safehouse sold.
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