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When night fell over the
nature reserve
our wings fluttered, fell, with the murky dark,
where we waited in our gaggle with stark
memory of the way we were preserved.
There was an aspen tree, leaning reserved—
and it was the scratched home of a blue lark—
pandemic sang that we would be sin-marked.
The bird song rings, we listened in, conserved.
Could there come such dulcet sweet furious
mud? We would put our righteousness away,
and don worn clothes, to walk about in torn
linen. We walked on water as curios,
we turned cinnamon into curry in a day
when no more miracles occurred but morn.
our wings fluttered, fell, with the murky dark,
where we waited in our gaggle with stark
memory of the way we were preserved.
There was an aspen tree, leaning reserved—
and it was the scratched home of a blue lark—
pandemic sang that we would be sin-marked.
The bird song rings, we listened in, conserved.
Could there come such dulcet sweet furious
mud? We would put our righteousness away,
and don worn clothes, to walk about in torn
linen. We walked on water as curios,
we turned cinnamon into curry in a day
when no more miracles occurred but morn.
—Emily Isaacson
