Coming to a Stop

All day the train plodded through
gray snow and overcast skies.
There was snow outside, punctured by
brown ochre stubs of corn.
In thickets of trees, flocks of turkey
skirted about, congregating gregariously.
Canadian geese stepped gingerly
onto the frozen crusts of rivers.
Red hawks kept guard both on bare branches
and on yellow signposts marked YIELD.
A coyote dashed across a green patch of field.
Here, too, there was beauty, despite
the sunless sky, the bare barren branches,
the land that was neither winter nor spring.
Even the wind turbines stood still.

1 Comment

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  1. Neither winter nor spring is a visceral feel of This Time in life. You surround it with perceptions of beauty. I struggle in the ‘betweenness’.

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