Poetry

Every day 

a poem 

pecks 

a path 

down

the page.

Often just 

a hen or a crow--

sometimes a whole flock 

of hens, 

a whole murder 

of crows and

now and then

when a comet 

sprays the night,

or Mars

and Venus 

cross in fuzzy 

dislocating light, 

a whole charm 

of hummingbirds 

dip down 

to agitate

all this 

empty space.