Portrait of Evening
6 Nov 2012
A group of us are listening
inside a stand of Hemlock,
and the evening is falling
upon a young girl first.
Her dirt covered fingers
sift warm air for starlight,
fuchsia nail polish worn to patches.
Her hair is a wild meadow of curls.
She easily outshines the rising moon,
cream colored ruffle skipping
across her cottoned chest.
Our ears are full of Cedar Waxwings,
mosquitos over water,
and the pond is wearing algae
like an old silver mirror.
She and I become a wordless vocalise,
but it is she who breathes the melody.
This child who is unafraid of bones
picked clean by scavengers,
plucks a deer femur from leaf litter
and demurely holds it out to me.
When I was her age
I would have done the same thing.
A camera in hand my eyes dance
her a direction, and without a word
this fledgling nestles her shoulder
against the nearest tree,
a barred owl roosting quietly,
the sunset softening a small red rose
sewn into the collar of her shirt.