No Shelter

At the apex of a wet field,
a blackbird loops away from her nest

and a bucket filled with cracked corn and molasses
from my hand swings and stills.

The bird's yellow bars flame on the wind,
slice a circle from the air,
a neat scallop of space:

she wants me gone, and charts her course
until I cut past her, past the ridge line

to shake the grain
to the horses asleep

on the field spread out like a book
whose leaves are green,
whose words are writ in hard water.

Copyright © 2003 Ann Townsend All rights reserved
from Five Points
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission