Upon Her Leaving, I Think
With a pinhole camera I try to photograph the magpie
but it flies off against the thunder of the afternoon
and clouds the color of dusk. The wind
shears against the outstretched wings as it sails
out of sight to the West. She leaves me here alone
with my thoughts and my collections of natural
things: fossils and insects and feathers and old
dry bones, memories of other summers, other falls
boxed and catalogued, chaos otherwise contained.
I want the image of her the way that I want these
artifacts. I want to hold them close, to pull them
from a drawer when I need to remember: Coleoptera,
Lepidoptera, Phylum Arthropoda, Pica pica- hidden
trophies in an otherwise empty corner of a clammy
basement on an afternoon filled with the silence of the skies.
I will bang my muddy boots together, shake the muck
from the soles before I step back into the study,
place the camera back on the shelf among the field
guides and storage trays and dusty arrow heads.
There will be other days and other birds to capture.
Don Kloss lives in a modest Cape Cod in Burlington, New
Jersey with two dogs and a psychotic room mate. He has been
writing poetry for about six years, and has been published in
various print and on line journals. When not writing poetry he
can be found composing music or fighting with a fishing rod.