A bird was here,
spiders, and tree frogs in six-eight.
The nearest freeway dopples in rushes
[The turtled green water once did.]
because the prows of trucks break the air
This is where I made your coffee.
This is where you hung the line.
This must be home.
The bird, I think it was red,
or gray, and lived on seeds
of chives, dill, and sweetgum
in the dry winter.
When I stood at the kitchen door,
barefoot and sunbit, whistling,
it would answer,
Weir, weir, weir.
Two-whee-who, who, who, who?
then fly to the top of the cottonwood
and watch for me to follow.
I never learnt wings
but I never forgot the call.
It is a dry winter again.
Something still answers.
About the author:
Mathias de Alpuente inherited literature from a clutch of Southern writers, professors, and convent school nuns. Sometimes his New Orleans roots show; other times, the polish of hours spent in libraries gleams. His work gives voice to the unspeakable.