Call an Exaltation

We raced the storm
back home. Fled

the town we might
call a second home

this fall, depending
on our government,

regulations, what
officials think might

be best. But by
all accounts, all

we can do is wait
now. A bird nests

on my parents’ porch,
just below the gutter,

and my father takes
photos because he

dares not bring them
inside. He has become

a watcher of birds,
and I envy his ability

to find something new
to interest him every

few years. I am still
stuck on poetry. Did

you know whenever 
a poem is written,

a tornado—God’s
finger—is beheaded,

some angel salved,
a hood ornament

buffed, shining like
the feathers of a baby

bird, fresh out of their
egg, a flock, perhaps

of larks, which some
call an exaltation.