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Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 4, 2009 13:30:20 GMT -5
Fifty swallows flocked along the wires twitter frantically about the impending journey south. On the lawn below,
a scattering of robins, glassy-eyed from the summer's regimen of sex and parenting, stagger about uncertainly,
heads cocked as if to keep one eye on the sky and the other ear to the ground, for that extra earthworm that could mean
the difference between making it across the Rio Grande or not. Woolly-bear caterpillars hump along doggedly,
wasps burrow into the earth, squirrels hustle from larder to larder to larder— everything in nature gripped by the urge
to make ready for the massive seasonal die-off drawing near. Everything, that is, but me. If ever found, the fieldnotes
of my Observer from Deneb will read somewhat as follows: "The creature, now concluding his sixty-ninth orbit of the star
he calls the Sun, evinces no awareness that the coming winter prefigures his own end. Today, as usual, he sits and stares
at either nothing, or the sheer passing of this blue (quite lovely, I must say) September afternoon on earth. He shows
no inclination to put his life in order, as if he has no clue that he will soon cease to be. Or maybe knows it only all too well."
Copyright Jim Crenner
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Post by MoonyLuna on Jan 4, 2009 13:30:59 GMT -5
Featured Poet Jim Crenner
Jim Crenner is the author of two previous books of poetry, The Aging Ghost and My Hat Flies on Again. He is a founding editor of the Seneca Review. A student under the late Donald Justice at the Iowa Writers Workshop, he lives in the Finger Lakes region of New York where he teaches at Hobart and William Smith Colleges.
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