Header image  
    Table of Contents
Don Russ

The Neighborhood

 Never in my wordland could there be ways to reveal,
in a phrase, how I feel.

                               G. D. Weiss, “Lullaby of Birdland”

I am everyone
I meet?  My here is everywhere
my slow mind goes?

I can’t always keep what’s seemed
my time from all the untimed dreamless
deeps of space, the night behind
the face of light.

We’ve seen at times a married pair
of cranes walk by, it’s a street that safe,
that peaceful-quiet:  their crane-talk,
even tête-à-tête domestic, sounds loud

to us who hold our breath to watch
and understand. We’re proud they choose
our tended lawns to glean. They’re us,
o ur Darwin-kin, a knee-bend not-

withstanding. Smoky-feathered, fiery
in their branded heads, they dance in love
just feet above familiar earth,
then fly into the sun.
From here we’ve watched men leave,
shot through the air-blue sky to ride atop
a spark, a yellow bit of daytime star,
into the outer night.

In love songs,
in lullabies, we’d have there be
no separation ever.