Poem by T.J. McLemore

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WHITEWING

A thunderstorm smears like charcoal down the sky, 
its borders lit, swirling up and out, vaulted impossibly
like I’d wished for some Renaissance heaven. 

Down here, two more horizons of cornstalk and milo sway
like a gold mare and her brindled colt, running together. 

The wind pins down the silence, rustling
this slow music through the field, a scattering of seeds. 

I watch the sky and wait, wings flapping in my vest.