Simmons B. Buntin
Safehouse

Against the moon, bruised
        in ruddy eclipse,
                I find the thorntree's nest

abandoned, a tangle
        of bluestem & sage.
                Last spring the mourning

doves fled the battered roost,
        the brood lost
                early, shells weathered

to white dust. New seekers
        now, as sparrows tease
                the bent leaves & mottled


wrens weave moonlight
        to madness in their quick
                & raucous wit.

The laughter calls
        the great-horned owl,
                cast like a gargoyle

on the horizon of rooftop-
        eyes red as the shadowed
                moon, as the earth's own

waning. A low cry
        & the songbirds drop
                to cold silence,

the nest cracked open
        to the ravenous night-
                the safehouse sold.

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