Together with the Thrashing Wings

There is no such thing as a still winter night.

On the highway of cold winds, little voices seemed to rise.

A single crow called from the edge of the road.

The winds were so strong I could not push against them.

Winter birds were crystals who flew over our heads.

Above the darkness stood another darkness, together with thrashing wings.

Perhaps we are orphans, hiding between ferns and the moss.

I removed a rock from the first stone wall, as old as the mountain itself.

I wanted a house that could not be seen.

I made a bone needle, I sewed myself an outfit from the dead deer’s fur.

I had the feeling that I was in an old story somewhere.

Even ice moves, an inching white river.

If what you long for is a roof above your head, slip quietly into the hemlock forest.

Note: This is a found poem. All the lines are taken from ‘My Side of The Mountain’ by Jean Craighead George.

Sirens

Define each realm by what is lost.

The swifts in their flight, how they arrow into bluing.

Perhaps this is Sunday evening and the end of all rest.

“Of all that is seen and unseen,” he loved that phrase from church.

How to describe the end of things: the bluing is the sky.

Think of a ship filled with all the heroes.

And the petals of the daylilies are closing one by one.

Raise your whiskey glass, that promise of darkness.

The crazy lady on the park bench says “Sirens, the sirens.”

What comes after happiness?

By the time that evening finally arrives, a tree will grow up from the living room floor.

There’s no real forgiveness, that’s one thing our minister said.

So the birds turned into people and they all flew away.

Robert McDonald’s first book of poems, "A Streetlight That's Been Told It Used to Be the Moon," is coming from Roadside Press in 2026. His work has appeared in 2 Rivers View, Action/Spectacle, I-70 Review, The San Pedro River Review, The Madrid Review, and West Trade Review, among others. He lives with his husband in Chicago.