Flight
       

It is the day after the leaves, when buckeyes,
like a thousand thousand pendulums, clock trees,
and squirrels, fat in their winter fur, chuckle hours,
chortle days. It is the time for the parting of our ways.

You slid into the summer of my sleeping, crept
into my lonely hours, ate the music of my dreams.
You filled yourself with the treated sweet I offered,
then shut your rolling eyes and stole my sleep.

Came morning and me awake. Came morning.
Awake, I walked twelve miles to the six-gun shop.
On the way there I saw a bird-of-prayer all furled up by the river.
I called to it. It would not unfold. On the way home I killed it.

It is the time of the waking cold, when buckeyes,
like a thousand thousand metronomes, tock time,
and you, fat on my summer sleep, titter toward me,
walk away. It is the time for the parting of our days.

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Copyright © 2011 Camille T. Dungy All rights reserved
from Smith Blue
Southern Illinois University Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission