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Evening Begins Again

Pam Obst

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The cape of a crow’s wing crosses my window.
Searchlights bat at intended shapes.
Beginning again—

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
street night.

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
spill out.
Words are falling,
resting—swallowed.