"confections" poems - Hello Poetry

The trail rose up through the sand and sage covered hills following the sinews of a land scoured by fire and flood. Even the most severe carving here was nothing compared to the city below- its concrete grid glaring over my shoulder- sprawled out, ******* on its dingy comforter of smog- ******* up the dust of the desert around it. The trail led me up. Up past twisted juniper bones, past pale green yuccas curling fine white filagree from their dagger blades, past sandstone boulders swirled like confections, past ancient cooking pits nested with ash, and ghost-like hands outlined on stone- to a white cliff face up-thrust beneath the cloudless sky. From a lone stump a pinyon jay squawked drawing my eyes down. A sentinel to its comrades- who rose up from the draw to my left and sailed in twos and threes sinking down into the draw on my right. Right before me, around me, behind me, first two- then six, then tens of metallic blue wings beating heavily against the unfamiliar desert air. They had come down. Down from the scrubby forests of pine. Down from snow covered slopes. Hungry, they searched the green fingers of the washes- the winter forcing them down across the trail that was drawing me up. They passed close by, wing beats feathered my ears, first up, then down- the sentinel keeping an eye . Listening, suddenly hearing my breath beat against the wind- I stood motionless, perched beyond starting and destination- blue wings lifting the hunger within. Tom Spencer © 2017

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Jul 5, 2015

Jul 5, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC

tom-spencer

Pinyon Jays

The trail rose up through the sand and sage covered hills following the sinews of a land scoured by fire and flood. Even the most severe carving here was nothing compared to the city below- its concrete grid glaring over my shoulder- sprawled out, ******* on its dingy comforter of smog- ******* up the dust of the desert around it. The trail led me up. Up past twisted juniper bones, past pale green yuccas curling fine white filagree from their dagger blades, past sandstone boulders swirled like confections, past ancient cooking pits nested with ash, and ghost-like hands outlined on stone- to a white cliff face up-thrust beneath the cloudless sky. From a lone stump a pinyon jay squawked drawing my eyes down. A sentinel to its comrades- who rose up from the draw to my left and sailed in twos and threes sinking down into the draw on my right. Right before me, around me, behind me, first two- then six, then tens of metallic blue wings beating heavily against the unfamiliar desert air. They had come down. Down from the scrubby forests of pine. Down from snow covered slopes. Hungry, they searched the green fingers of the washes- the winter forcing them down across the trail that was drawing me up. They passed close by, wing beats feathered my ears, first up, then down- the sentinel keeping an eye . Listening, suddenly hearing my breath beat against the wind- I stood motionless, perched beyond starting and destination- blue wings lifting the hunger within. Tom Spencer © 2017