Page 12 - Contrast1977Novemberv21n1
P. 12
Orange chill near dusk ,t.h<c:! air s1OO115
acrid as a fuming shotshe11. Swamp
screech, we rustle thru brown stuble,
vines rasp at boots, hearts pound like
a quail flush. Lurching into a wall of
saplings, fog-breathed, my companion
fades into a crackle of limbs. Above the
grackles trrx in trees, pigeons knife to
barns and the swamp screech leads us.
Always to the ri vez where the doves
Whistle at the night and screech,
befuddled at the steep bank , thunders.
Zei th Ap .leI'
