Grace Gilbert

eastern meadowlark, thirty-ninth mile of morning

i tire of the pounding. the

fogged windows, incessant

static of sleeves and stations,

the  hum  hum    hum

the rusted engine of a thing and of me.

to the left, i notice

dappled auburn under-

bellies among dirt clods & dry

grasses, gaping:

inserting  beaks into  soil,

sweet lazy whistles

from splintering  wood beams,

gentle hymns  for sunup

pull over. i rest

a moment after cracking the door,

watch the grassland

fledglings learn to nestle in

dips &  hollows

of the wintered stubble

field. when engine revs

  they flit & swoop, chaos

shrouded in smog

while i softly tap

  pinkies against

the wheel

At the viaduct, the Hudson in March, fourteen days since he fell under

I watch

    his Mama


a    lone




the   swollen



Grace Gilbert is currently studying creative writing and childhood education at SUNY Geneseo. Her hobbies include eating Manchego cheese, daydreaming about Sir Elton John, and whispering the word gazebo to herself until she dissociates from the English language.