Luci Shaw

Lying here on the short grass, I am a bowl for sunlight. Silence. A bee. The lip of water over stones. The swish and slap, hollow under the dock. Down-shore a man sawing wood. Christ in the sunshine laughing through the green translucent wings of maple seeds. A bird resting its song on two . . . . Continue Reading »

The cattle who should, according to folklore, be lying down at the approach of rain, stand skeptical in a field of ragged green. The sky, a surging pewter, exhibits a tatter of gulls. Like cows, I live under a conditional heaven; clouds keep tearing apart, then mending, heavy with partial images. . . . . Continue Reading »

A shifting net of birds swelling over the pasture, turning, an amoeba, now dark and granular as dying, now an invisible, a thin fluid slicing light. Folding, the winged black knot splits. Plunges. My heart tumbles in the dark, and against the backlit sky I am a . . . . Continue Reading »

I I have been considering the ravens, who live without worrying and have no bins or barns And have no reaping machines. Yet they are fed well—their bodies sleek, gloved in black silk. With what a minor tempest They startle and settle, yet they are the poets of motion. Like folk songs their . . . . Continue Reading »