Crows Over Wheatfields

Jay Nebel

It's not what you would expect. No thick, pining
Brushstrokes. No sky molded between the colors
Of black and blue. Not even a painter
Hidden somewhere with a bullet shining
Beneath his skin, the wheat flowing over
His slack body, fluid, soft as water.
No crows the shape of M's, no signing,
Not even a last breath or belief ommitted.
No, it's not what you would expect,
A car parked somewhere in the Great Midwest
Along a dusty road. Alone for miles,
Not a person or a house, not a soul
Out here, but a few old crows, the wheat, wild
From wind, and me, suffering an imagined death.

The First Rejection

Only a few hours left of the summer
We all remember well; the sun darkens,
Goes down like the last of our memory;
A few last flickers of light on the leaves-
Look how they pick themselves up, recover
From the wind, seemingly unguided, every
One of them, without plan or direction,
Lifted above ground with the first breeze.
Weren't we like that, papery thin, fragile
As leaves, blown into that distant city
With nothing left? And after, settled,
Constant, independent, almost godless
Except for the soft breath on our backs, gentle
As wind, as a hand, always there, guiding us.

Waiting For The Savior

Out of the streets, cold and black with rain,
He arrived: Bearded, a long coat nestled
Tight around him. The wounds on his wrists and legs
And the strange light he pulled over the place-
As if sun had suddenly broken the plane
Of dust covered windows; newspapers, rags
Startled into their white glares, and all of us,
Dressed in our thin, ragged clothes-whatever
we could find--were humbled, embarrassed
In his presence. This was no way to look
Or be found, and why us of all people?
One man closed his eyes, another fainted:
"This is where he works his miracle," one said,
before our visitor pulled out a rig, shot up, and nodded.

Jay Nebel