by Stephen Ruffus
Searching them out in the obscure air
sweeping them into bundles,
into great nests, I crouch
and gather armfuls of broken shell,
dried grass, bird wing
bent in the angle of the wind.
Sun from the small spaces
in the roof scatters across my face
like light flickering through
heavy trees. I sail along the joists,
leap across the highways of timber
that brace the feathered tongue and groove.
Outside the birds flap deep within
the bush, breaking open
last year’s berries covering the ground
and staining it like blood.
Stephen Ruffus is originally from New York City. Although he has lived in various parts of the country, he still maintains strong ties there. For much of his professional life he has lived in Salt Lake City, Utah working as a teacher and administrator in higher education. Most recently, his work has appeared in The Shore, Third Wednesday, Poetica Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and the Valparaiso Poetry Review. In the spring, three of his poems will appear in The Woven Tale Magazine. He is a Pushcart nominee.
Emerge Literary Journal 