Blue barn 1


Where bare branch
fingers sky
they congregate, gossips in tree tops
cackling birdbrained
as the moon sets
quarter drained.

Down at the church
autumn has come
frozen toed
in winter shoes.

It’s the first Tuesday
of November
as voters slip
into a booth to confess,
not to a priest or God,
but the Devil’s rule
for the next four years.

The magpies
shuffle uncomfortable in their seats, turn
their yellow eyes toward heaven
and explode into a storm.

Richard Rensberry, author at QuickTurtle Books®

One thought on “Magpies

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