The boy loves lying
in this open field, blinking
at the bowl of summer sky.
Heedless of wiregrass itching his neck, of ants
sizing up his ears,
he tracks the somber wings that float
and swoop in primordial arcs
as though suspended
from puppeteer’s strings. Still
as a graveyard angel
the boy believes he can draw them near.
The pitch-black hunters
wheel through the midday glare,
shadows skimming the ground
crossing the boy’s pale legs.
He can almost feel the first one
thump onto his chest,
feel the talons’ fish-hook grip,
smell the stench of outstretched wings,
poised as in a dream,
above this small emptiness
in the shape of a boy.
Ken Hines has been an ad agency creative director and a college English teacher, two jobs that require getting through to people who may not be listening. When he finally got around to writing poetry, his work appeared in literary magazines like Dunes Review, Burningwood Literary Journal, Hole in the Head Review, Rockvale Review, and Third Wednesday Journal. A recent Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee, he lives in monument-free Richmond, Virginia with his wife, Fran.
Ken Hines
