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| Minneapolis, photo by Salwan Georges/The Washigton Post |
Behind the wooded hill
a chainsaw revs,
somewhere in the township
a distant barking dog,
speckled vocal starlings
in blighted yellow crowns
rise in failing light,
wings and blind instinct,
behind the wooded hill
no one will come.
Best we do not know
each other well,
love grows easily
and death and death,
daughter, mother, wife,
gunfire in the vales,
the only joys I know
are small, unmasked
behind the wooded hill
and waiting still.
