Buzzed

The buzzard doesn’t hit the windshield
so much as swim across, talons skittering,

tail feathers fanned, a swooping rush
of black, white and rust-brown –

the driver and I fling arms up and duck.
The vehicle swerves, but there’s no road,

no oncoming traffic, just flat hard-pack
where sand used to be and will come again.

The others in the backseat yell out,
want to know what’s happening,

but the buzzard disappears as abruptly
as it came. The driver clasps his turban,

no longer shy and distant, flashes me
a wide-eyed smile. We both hoot a laugh.

He will go back to looking ahead,
fingering wooden prayer beads looped

on the steering wheel, but the sands
have shifted. The ride is smooth.

Ann Farley, poet and caregiver for the elderly, is happiest outside, preferably at the beach. Her work has appeared in Verseweavers, KOSMOS, and Timberline Review, among others. She lives in Beaverton, OR, and she walks her dog every morning before dawn, whether it’s raining or not.

AddThis Website Tools
TechAdmin

Share
Published by
TechAdmin

Recent Posts

Notes from the Editor

Dear Reader, Who knew that a can-can dancer from the posters of Toulouse Lautrec would…

4 weeks ago

Rick Adang

Eternal Return A crocus from the rotting flesh of a hedgehog, placed with the pansies…

4 weeks ago

Shawn Aveningo-Sanders

Full Moon at Montmartre Claudette’s a can-can girl high-kickin’ it under the red windmill. She…

4 weeks ago

Frank Babcock

In the Light of Peace --painting by Bruce King of the Oneida Nation The travelers…

4 weeks ago

Louise Cary Barden

A Quad of Golden Shovels Internal Conversation at the beginning of Winter Wet and beautiful…

4 weeks ago