Gathering Myself

—Eric Rawson

The day growing colder under

A thin layer of winter sky


A little blue

With the crows

Bragging immensely in the trees


The evening spits up the moon

Like a wet seed


I come home

With my fishing rod and two perch

Wrapped in newspaper

I’m thirsty

But I can wait


The ivy is still green

And dark in the dusk

Like some creature’s fur

Fringing the branches and the pole


The old hermit gleams in my eyes

For a minute

Greedy and cold