John Grey


Light is now in the hands of morning.
And the distant bell.
And the first crop of birds
rising from the wakened trees.
All pride, all injustice,
even pain, even desire,
are muted by the rising sun,
as it renews the spreading green-top,
where history’s bones are buried,
Every pore is preened and penetrated,
Day knows nothing of man and machinery.
And yet it starts out wise.


Tracks in the snow
are a silence I can hear,
a journey I can see.
On a bright, frozen January morning,
whatever passed this way
is still a presence.

There are deer nibbling through snow
to get at the grass.
And foxes tiptoeing in pursuit
of bounding rabbits.
And an icy image of paws and claws
is as much bear
as if one were raised up on its hind legs
before me.

Tracks in the snow
are the wildlife around here.
They bear repeating.

Flights, Issue Eight, March 2023