Robin Reagler

On the long drive across town,
a sudden burst of black darts
against the reddened
horizon—later the blush
of taillights in the thickening traffic—

above your bed, a poster to remind you
of home, the sand dunes that have grown
dirty. Bright arrows
of gulls move
above the great fresh lake
as though they spiral
out of the black iris
of a red beach umbrella

I’m reminded myself of the river town
where I stopped between homes—
how it was late December
and miles of wrens followed
the Ocmulgee and the railroads
North against the season

What is the right time?
A long flock of songbirds migrates
north along the riverbed
of my body. In the hour
I have stood here, they
have not stopped.

by Meghan Brinson

published in the inaugural issue of Bone Bouquet