Spits of rain, and willow leaves spin bright bodies down onto mud
and dun-colored weed. Knotted, ancient-looking angles of button bush
hold up yellow leaves, or few, or none; their sycamore- buttons dangle.
A crane, white like heavens, bends its flight to the gracious air,
stoops to the water’s billows, head tucked like a cockpit, body shaped
to swoop and dip. The crane lifts from behind beaver -gnawed, gnarled
willows; escapes me, heading back to the pool it came from, stitching
the fabric of cattails with needle-moves. From concealing trees
a bald eagle makes an entrance, riding the stressed invisible bridges
of the sky, the way hearts lift on Creed’s substantial air.
LANDLOCKED LYRES 