Vane
       

The rusted rooster spins alone these days,
presiding over dust and emptiness
atop the barn's dull spire. Late-summer haze
shimmers as his beak turns from east to west
to east to west again, metallic creak
the only soundtrack played for miles around.
No noisy mammals stir here, bold or meek.
No silent insects turn the silt-fine ground.
The rooster's rusty groan is like a crow
that wakes up nothing every day and night.
His turns around his post aren't fast or slow,
aren't good or bad, aren't true or wrong or right.
He just spins there as he did, without care,
when people were still here. Or anywhere.

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Copyright © 2016 Dan Albergotti All rights reserved
from 32 Poems
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission