Wilder

In the first month of the year
           birds curdled the air.

From our windows we watched them
           clench and billow, their wings beating
           so low to the ground that seeds rose
           from their furrows.

When our ears began to ache from the pressure,
           we sent out our augurs.

A great fire, they said,
           is blowing from the east.

That explained the fevers, the mercury
           that broke the levees of our mouths,
           the apples that dimpled and rotted
           in our orchards, dropping through the leaves
           like heart-sized hailstones.

—From “Advent” in Wilder by Claire Wahmanholm

Photo by Eric Frommer, CC BY-SA 2.0, cropped