We dream according to what we are.
The infant searching with closed eyes
and open mouth in sleep dreams
of the breast. We donít fault
the newborn for the way she blindly gropes
through space to find the mother
who is sitting in a blue chair
by a window in another room.
A gong has been sounded. The flashing
ebb and flow of life outside
rises like an empty summons.
We have been surmounted.
Harsh voices and spread plumage,
Peloponnesian wars, and a sky filled
with water birds struggling
to organize into a v
that will take them home for the winter.
But they donít know yet why they struggle.
Honey and Old Things by Dorothy Wayne Russell
Great Ones by Geoffrey Nutter
Peloponnesian Wars by Geoffrey Nutter
In the Atlas of Birds by Kirsten Kaschock