Midnight Winds
           

Just as dusk begins to darken
          that vegetable garden we had wedged

against a picket fence at the edge
          of our backyard, mud puddles collect,

lengths of rusted gutters run over
          with quickening rainfall, and roof corner

drain openings are stopped up
          by those thickening clusters of soaked

oak leaves or twigs now twisted
          into narrow down spouts. A thin belt

of young evergreens—each one
          leaning the same way, as if about to step

out in some military formation—
          shelters our house from the quick storm's

northern winds, but by midnight,
          with every gust the street lights shudder,

fitfully flickering in new pools
          gathering along the front lawn, tattered

shadows of branches flutter
          like the black wings of a trapped bird.

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Copyright © 2011 Edward Byrne All rights reserved
from Tinted Distances
Turning Point Books
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission