Joy Harjo

Sunday, May 5, 2013

Vespers



A linnet pulls a tuft of cowhair
snarled on barbed wire.
The threads of hair shine red-gold
in her beak.  She flies into last light.

At the horizon earth & sky
reach a truce.  The sun just down,
barn swallows tumble in the afterglow
above the slow turning windmill.
The hill darkens,

a saddle rubbed with oil,
not yet the complete black of Nevada night.
There’s the soft whickering of a horse,
the flames of a hundred Asian poppies nodding red,
then the descending quiet.

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