Pam Obst writes, draws, crochets and teaches in Seattle, where she lives with her husband.
The cape of a crow’s wing crosses my window.
Searchlights bat at intended shapes.
I can barely see the chimney’s white-blue smoke
against the changing evening sky—
Now it’s gone.
Birds’ beaks squeeze into the wind;
wings fold into a forgetting sky.
The white rose
pulls out from the dark
I navigate the half-moon shadow
on my face.
I’ve grown tiny,
looping through the grim sleep
of harbored seasons.
The surrendering voice
has a language.
The stinging sounds from streetlights
Words are falling,