and home i flew
the sun spread itself, a red pupil
in a golden eye watering. i backed into
some peaches where a cukoo
was residing, amid the staggered ebony
of shadows dying.
warblers dropped from where to land
on what, with such velocity, i barely
caught the tail of one before i raced to
almost see the eye ring of another.
a puffed out hummingbird paused
long enough on a median branch,
confused me—ruby throat, yes,
but white crowned, impossibly.
not safe to walk the main road
in the dark, i gathered the buckeyes
i had snatched and heard far cows
bawling for their calves. the sun
gone, i hawked round in a ditch
where i found true north
in a clouded sulfur butterfly.
Bree is a poet and artist in KY farmland. She is the author of three memoirs, including A Leg To Stand On, where she tells of being hit by a car while walking in a crosswalk, which enables her three free migraine surgeries which did not aid in her recovery, but made her feel a little rewarded.