On Flocking Together

By Jennifer Hunt, from the archives

Consider the flock
Of pigeons on this sidewalk.
What's their bond?
Is it their plumage? Or only
A queer attraction to the same,
Overstuffed trash bin.
As graceful as a junior high dance
As friendly as a country club
Necks ticking off my odd points
Eyes scolding me up and down,
I’m molted on the spot.
Their tattle all coo-coo's and poo-poo's
A quibbling over yesterday's lunch
I'd rather be plucked than join in.
But when I hear your strain
From across Pigeon Alley,
I forget all about Audobon's canon.
You could be a goldfinch
I, a blue-footed booby
Still, I would flock to you
Faster than airwaves
Because on the inside—
Where no birdwatcher can go—
On the inside
Our feathers match perfectly.

Florida Vacation

by Jen Hunt, from the archives

Coy winter plays at summer
As the breeze grazes my temples
But her chill betrays
The true season

The sun lifts her head from her pillow
The sun props herself up with her hands

Arching her back
She stretches
One arm
Then another—
Exhales her breathy rays above the hills

My spirit slinks down
Distilled by glow
Refined by shadow
We are at rest
The sun and I