…. might include a redwing blackbird suddenly rising from the stream behind the post office as you emerge from the weed-lined path with your brass key. The bird’s feathers hold the hue of burned-out embers.
Or a crumpled Bud Lite can propped neatly against the cinder blocks of the building’s foundation.
Or maybe cows crossing the road as you’re waiting behind a trash truck, the girls tossing cherry pits out the open windows.
Put your mouthful of words away
and come with me to watch
the lilies open in such a field,
growing there like yachts,
slowly steering their petals
without nurses or clocks.
— Anne Sexton