Photo by Matias Orihuela on Unsplash

Across the tip of my monitor
beyond the top edge where contact
with humanity ends, I see
successive lines leading upwards to
a final one that
rolls across the expanse of my vision,
rising and falling along
the crests of distant trees.

Demarcated by shades fading
from green to grey, the line
is juxtaposed at 4:57pm
by the pinkening sky,
sharpening to orange at
the far edge that frames my view.

Quarantine here.
Where the long limb of an oak tree
lumbers across this horizon,
a familiar branch, like
an elbow, reaching down
as if to rest,
has a crook, and above that, a hole,
discernably dark, into which
a woodpecker
dips a head. A second,
one, in bright red and black
criss-crosses the branches
until waiting
to rest, as it, too,

Glancing down to my screen,
figures dart across two
dimensions, where the sun
is setting for us all now,
save those who dialed in
from another coast
already darkened.

In this twilight,
we pop into each
other’s cells, like birds
inspecting other birds
at work in their nests.
We share news of the horizons
of our week — our forays
into words,
word counts,
the poems of others
the poems of our own.

Here, then, three things:
A screen
A horizon

One thing during COVID: Life

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