Sunday Morning

The sun persecutes your eyes. The trees are quiet. A robin bounces
on the flat barren patch at the corner by Main street. Foxtail barley fringing

the road twirls its hair when the wind rises. On the perimeter, dust rolls
like regret behind the wheels of a car headed East. Above, a cabbage butterfly;

two. Then, another two: Danceland for fliers, you think. Main Street scours
itself in baked emptiness, its bony shadows pooling on one side. Ahead,

a new red F150 outside a tiny house, a large rag on the windshield, but no              
water, no hose nearby. Everything still. On the gravel, a rusted barbecue

and three Kokanee empties near a pale striped lawn chair, stained. Your steps
slow; it is not a rag. Each brown speckled wing is pinned carefully, evenly,

under the blade of a wiper against the glass, and you see, under the feathers,
the shield is cracked; the head of the Swainson’s is twisted around, down,

as you have twisted coat hangers you wanted to discard, the white
of the breast and belly thrust into morning like the prow of a prairie ship.

© Lorri Neilsen Glenn, Arc, Winter 2008