WEBVTT

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Called "Where We Are."

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It takes its image from bead.

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That's venerable, not out.

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He talks about life being like
a bird flying through a hall,

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coming into a hall in the
light from moment to then.

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Like this.

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Expand.

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"Where We Are."

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A man tears a chunk of
bread off the brown loaf

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and wipes the gravy
from his plate.

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Around him at the long table,
friends fill their mouths

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with duck and roast
pork, fill their cups

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from pitchers of wine.

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Hearing a high
twittering, the man

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looks to see a bird, black with
a white patch beneath its beak,

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flying the length of
the hall, having flown

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in by a window over the door.

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As straight as a
taut string, the bird

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flies beneath the roof beams.

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As the firelight flings its
shadow against the ceiling,

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the man pauses.

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One hand holds the bread, the
other rests upon the table,

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and watches the bird.

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Perhaps, a swift fly
through the window

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at the far end of the room.

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He begins to point it
out to his friends,

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but one is telling hunting
stories, as another describes

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the best way to butcher a pig.

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The man shoves the
bread in his mouth,

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then slaps his hand down hard
on the thigh of the woman seated

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beside him, squeezes his
fingers to feel the firm muscles

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and tendons beneath the
fabric of her dress.

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A huge dog snores on a
stone hearth by the fire.

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From the window comes the
clicking of pine needles,

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blown against the glass
by an October wind.

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A Half Moon hurries along
behind scattered clouds,

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while the forest of black spruce
and leafless maple and birch

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surrounds the long hall
the way a single rock can

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be surrounded by a river.

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This is where we are in history,
to think the table will remain

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full, to think the forest will
remain where we have pushed

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it, to think our
bubble of good fortune

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will save us from the night.

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A bird flies in from the dark,
flits across the lighted hall,

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and disappears.

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