We drive from Little
Rock up to Mizzou
while they circle along 71, rising
highway of rolling brown hills, winter though
spring. At times they hover like surprising
mustaches on nodding clouds, then
quick flick
of wings sends them soaring high
and away—
great ideas blurred, then lost. How
quick
they can return, mute as empty
tombs. Say
they silently pray while seeking
prey. Tell
your lover they only appear after
humans share honest touch.
Describe what hell
they’ve flown through to find you,
sense soft laughter
released only from caring souls; how
rash
words in past lives seared wings
to hues of ash.
Roger Armbrust
March 13, 2013
