Self-Admonition at Summer Seat

Consider the shelf of cracked bedrock where the roots
of cedars knuckle down. Knuckle down.
Think of the trees as flames that burn all winter
and warm no one, their roots like wicks
into the oily dark, their branches sputtering
in a gust of starlings. Remember the mounds
and sockets of the old graveyard, the murderous
crows on the hill that shout into the coming night
and eye you hungrily. Imagine the rabbit
that will skitter at nightfall from its den to the base
of the hill, the coyote crouching there. Be silent
before the scuffles and blood they will print in snow.
Let the wind move its hands across the field's
blank page without you, while dusk, coming early now,
inks the treeline's smoldering arch as you write.

Copyright © 2007 Davis McCombs All rights reserved
from Dismal Rock
Tupelo Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission