Stand still, stare hard


Wooden Bridge In The Autumn Forest by Odon Czintos


Here is the 7th  and final stanza of a poem by May Swenson:




Now and then, a red leaf riding

the slow flow of gray water.

From the bridge, see far into

the woods, now that limbs are bare,

ground thick-littered. See,

along the scarcely gliding stream,

the blanched, diminished, ragged

swamp and woods the sun still

spills into. Stand still, stare

hard into bramble and tangle,

past leaning broken trunks,

sprawled roots exposed. Will

something move?—some vision

come to outline? Yes, there—

deep in—a dark bird hangs

in the thicket, stretches a wing.

Reversing his perch, he says one

“Chuck.” His shoulder-patch

that should be red looks gray.

This old redwing has decided to

stay, this year, not join the

strenuous migration. Better here,

in the familiar, to fade.






<a href=””>Bridge</a&gt;


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