Spring 1985 • Vol. VII No. 2 Poetry |

Oats

Yellow feathers from a distance, those stems Bear many heads, each with its slender shell. A maple empties itself of sparrows To retrieve the dust in single grains. Such foraging is light work. They could keep it up All morning in the range of the maple's shade, For the mowers have left their trucks to the sun. One strip of the crop is uncut, like something Left whole for luck, or out of respect for memory: That time there were foxes in the middle row, Trembling to be found so close. Our hands Were worse than the blades for them, so Before we shut the motors down, they ran, The white brush tips of their tails held stiff Their long spines parabolas of rust. And below them the pattern of planting The cutting and their leaps exposed. I know what I would say about a jobThat looks unfinished. Sometimes it's right To abandon the end, when completion looks empty Instead of full, and only the little scavengers Can search to the earth for sustenance. Tonight the sun will go to ground miles b

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Pastoral

By Lisa Lewis

Yellow feathers from a distance, those stems Bear many heads, each with its slender shell. A maple empties itself of sparrows To retrieve the dust in single grains. Such foraging […]

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