A Saturday Caesura Poem
Two grain bins, weathered and warped,
squat behind a mess of caragana
as if ashamed of their gaping uselessness.
But as I walk past on a Saturday,
or any day,
their silent presence becomes a friendship
in the midst of fields stretched wide. Empty
except here, where the aging bins
are serenaded by a small chorus of redpolls,
their soft symphonies celebrate a camaraderie
expansive enough to embrace even me.