Thursday, April 07, 2005

Weightless Boxes

My wife’s hand is small.
It fits inside the eeeooolaay
of a wood thrush
and I am young again,
the gates of heaven not shut
against me, walking in the woods
behind the ferry landing.
No, she says with her hand,
that is a Brown Thrasher. See
the length of its tail. Her hand
becomes a length of feathers.
It more often seen than heard
but can be heard in the way
light appears to sing.
Her hand is common, spotted
with rust,
in fear of extinction.
It can hold eight eggs
if the eggs are very small.

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