This Bird Has Flown

Up from the granite-studded shore, the blue-blackened crow wings away
And is gone, somewhere in the mythical fall to abide
In the beach grass’s blend of browns, yellows and greens
Or somewhere in the woods with its flickering fall brilliance
Like the heavenly fires of creation shining through.

And there will be no communion beyond that.
Now there is only the sea with its sonorous emptiness
And the lap of small waves on the hull and the pulsating heart in its cage
And this looking, this looking, this looking
At what will never be resolved.

8 October 2026
Texas Jim
Prospect, Nova Scotia