Bravo, young birds, for I have long admired
societies, for across
the forested shore, through your carols
and paths of jubilee,
I have long sought
the origins of your quiet country. Do not forbid
gentle, gentle birds. Inspect my instruments,
my coat, my spectacles and hat–––
I am no spy, dear birds,
but see how grief has worn me bare.
I carry no harm, though huntsmen
fill the horizon,
urging their company forward in files through
the morning fog.
May they be swallowed
like roots buried beneath the bones of things.
For we who flee have
only the charred columns of memory to guide us
through so vast
an army of deceit.
Remember us when you find what is true.
Travis Wright is a graduate student in Charlotte, NC where he lives with his wife Emily and their two children. His work has appeared previously in the Brooklyn Quarterly, Anthropocene, and ARTOS, among others, and his poem 'Naomi' appeared in Dust's first issue.