Disguises

Originally posted 4/1/2011.

A single bird over the church
at the top of our hill.
His fingered wings
say he’s a buzzard, he of the tribe
of naked head and a taste for death.

Seen from here,
he soars.

I have an urge
to cover the daffodils
that are just emerging
from the snow-compacted mulch
beside my front walk.

It passes.
They’ll be fine.

Later, in the dark apartment,
the fears and concerns of the day
slide around me in bed
like eels — they come close,
my skin pulls back.

I sleep,
and they move away.

In waves upon waves
the disguised and dissembling
cover the earth.  From where I stand
there’s nothing out there but
a danger of drowning.

I bob to the surface
and see the sky every time.