Like the sound of washing calves in cold water
a bird flock takes flight.
A mountain ridge hangs on the calves of a flock of birds.
Wild roses bloom on the calves of a flock of birds.
Clouds will drip the smell of skin
until birds pass through my body.
Even this, I believe, is the work of passing birds.
Clouds float down.
They sip water in the valley.
I sweep up a flock of birds.
To celebrate National Poetry Month and in appreciation of the many cancelled book launches and tours, we are happy to present an April Celebration: 30 Presses/30 Poets (#ArmchairBookFair). Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.