Patterns, everybody wants. Above, the planets conjunct
in celebrated spheres. On the ground exposed, a nest,
in the nest an egg, within the egg a killdeer. Limping
killdeer, wing-tipped, thin legs running, waits for her young
to hatch and fledge in nests. Curtains of falling leaves arrange
themselves in jigsaw pieces over hollowed out stumps,
over furrows of pine plantings, under picker bushes, on
old road homestead pastures, fields of empty spaces, edges
of sparse woods. Here the streets of heaven are paved with
unfinished poems. I could have brought a camera or a sketch
pad, although it appears this world is just for me. Frost on the
thermos, past chords of swaying compass plants, in long strides
I walk until I recognize this foreign land, until the setting sun.
Setting sun, I’d keep this to myself tonight, this feeling; lonely
as a shadow on the ground from a circling Raven or Crow, I am.
Photo by Jeremy Hynes on Unsplash.
Tim Moder
Tim Moder is a member of Lake Superior Writers and The Bad River band of Lake Superior Chippewa. He manages a small team at a medical records company. His poems have appeared in The Sinking City Review, The Coachella Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Olney Magazine, and others. His debut chapbook All true Heavens was published with Alien Buddha Press in 2022. Find out more on his website.