Brown Feathered Bird Sings the Blues

In a yellowing and russet autumn,

easterly winds release long whistles;

scatter ripples across the waves,

riverside reeds bow in deference

And a small lighthouse stands alone,

On a scarred outcrop.

Iceland trolley, burnt out motor-

bike, dead hairless cat drape

seaweed rocks.

The circle of trees are long gone,

are replaced by razor-wire fencing:

corroding steel, this city’s rustic.

Yet still I sing.

Even as light slips

toward night,

high perched, high pitched trill of

hope burning combines with chirrs for

the re-wilding of barren steelscapes

And styrofoam-free crevices.