Four Poems

THOMAS MITCHELL

Beginning With Crows

They have so much on their minds;

                  as they cast their eyes across the darkness

 the moon shines like the Holy Ghost.

                  The wind makes the trees forget their leaves,

the trees no longer trees, as stars swarm like gnats

                  in the arms of the Madrone.

There’s the spring of the branch

                  as the crows take wing,

and the Coleman lantern shuts down

                  with a last breathing sigh,

a sudden hiss.

All Morning

All morning the splattering of rain

bruising the sidewalk, streams of water

trickling over the hardscrabble. I’m here again

by the kitchen window, dark clouds rising in the West.

There’s no one else; just yesterday’s dishes

left by the sink, the white porcelain cups

half filled with coffee, the broken umbrella

by the front door casement. Suddenly the sun,

a flight of sparkling starlings, all turning at the same time,

their shadows flickering along the garden fence.

Wild Geese

We can’t see them,

               but we know they’re there,

               playing their oboes off tune---

a relentless melancholy,

               they careen through the fog,

one after the other,

               breaking into the neighbor’s field,

a sequence of rolling wingbeats,

               as they drift to the earth,

flaring their wings, easing into the fallow rows.

We know we are blessed

               by their simplicity, their innocence,

the way they crouch,

               looking at one another,

looking sideways at the winter corn,

               bristling their feathers,

tucking their heads under their wings,

               metallic purple-green necks,

perfection of form,

               pure emeralds in the early light,

soft gray thunder when they rise.

Waiting

It doesn’t make any difference

if seven mallards break away

from the treeline, that the broken

moon drifts aimlessly

to the East. These things happen

every day. I know if I wait

long enough another star will appear

on the horizon, a bright thought

that no one comprehends.

That’s why I keep walking, though

you are not at my side; shadows

reaching out like arms

from the cedars, the wind carrying

words we can’t remember, brushing

the needles on the firs. It’s starting

to rain. 

THOMAS MITCHELL received an MA from Cal State University, Sacramento, where he studied with the poet Dennis Schmitz. He received an MFA from the University of Montana where he worked with Richard Hugo and Madeline DeFrees. His writing has appeared in a number of journals including The New England Review, New Letters, Quarterly West, Chariton Review, The New Orleans Review, and Cloudbank. His new collection of poetry, The Way Summer Ends, was released in October by Lost Horse Press.

The Adirondack Review

SUMMER 2017