Table Hour

I come to this table
to be in the quiet,
to live an hour in the alone.
In times past a poem
has come to life
and found a way to
speak through me,
but none comes
today with ease.

A god-awful
squawking bird, a crow,
comes near–
and fills my mind
instead with such
a discordant
tint of sorrow.

His tough voice brings
back an image of
the family farm
in rural Oregon
that has been sold,
the people now
under hilltop lawns,
where crows that
ate the summer corn
now visit stones
on the hill.

I stand from the table
and walk a mile
of gravel road to free up
thoughts, to bring back
the elusive magic
of the writing hour.

Foot-over-foot
with no regard
for thought, only
the drill of foot on rock.
What keeps me moving
is not so much
the going forth,
but avoiding
the going back.

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