eastern meadowlark, thirty-ninth mile of morning
i tire of the pounding. the
fogged windows, incessant
static of sleeves and stations,
the hum hum hum
the rusted engine of a thing and of me.
to the left, i notice
dappled auburn under-
bellies among dirt clods & dry
grasses, gaping:
inserting beaks into soil,
sweet lazy whistles
from splintering wood beams,
gentle hymns for sunup
pull over. i rest
a moment after cracking the door,
watch the grassland
fledglings learn to nestle in
dips & hollows
of the wintered stubble
field. when engine revs
they flit & swoop, chaos
shrouded in smog
while i softly tap
pinkies against
the wheel
At the viaduct, the Hudson in March, fourteen days since he fell under
I watch
his Mama
fling
a lone
golden
lent-lily
into
the swollen
gorge.
Grace Gilbert is currently studying creative writing and childhood education at SUNY Geneseo. Her hobbies include eating Manchego cheese, daydreaming about Sir Elton John, and whispering the word gazebo to herself until she dissociates from the English language.