Selene skims along Quaker Lake.
Single file, in obeisance they touch her face.
Call out in long-bellied honks,
beyond cranberry bogs blood-caked,
over lime colored swamps
dotted with driftwood stumps.
The red wing blackbird is caught,
low between the fleshless reed,
her ebony neck bent and soft,
trussed in bulrush and snowy cattail seed.
How she lived and sang was for naught,
her brood gone by November's frost.
All is loss.
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