A flycatcher, not a thrush. Just before dawn not a
harbinger or mistress, but impossible to know in the
woods of home. In Croatia, I found you on a coin,
quietly staring at the Adriatic. In the Rhineland,
you were climbing the scales, trilling above traffic.
Elsewhere, you are drawn to the rose, celebrating
yourself, and I congratulate my hearing, my invisible
spirit that leans toward the darkness you dispel,
where blessings begin to appear, petals shrug off
their dew, lovers walk through fog, your distant
appeal like Whitman’s widowed bird calling to his
mate—this the melody of grief, the memory of storm,
nocturnal scribble on the air, a pulse that signifies and
withdraws as the sun dreams its way back into morning.
John Allman | Recycling
Contents | Mudlark No. 48 (2012)