Leigh Jordan


 

These Strangers

 
             The blackbirds sit by the hundreds along six telephone wires, their rows resembling lines on punch-cards. Behind them hangs a violet evening sky. Smells cling to the rising thermals like vagabond passengers – onions, cow manure, exhaust. The last few peach blossoms are lost among the delicate chartreuse leaves and have finished with their sweetness. We stand in open land on newly furrowed soils.
 
             You yell at me that you don’t give a shit. Invective given at a distance.
 
             The blackbirds lift from the wires in an undulating sweep of broken darkness and unclaimed noises. They continue to circle in waves, their shadow-selves passing indiscriminately across the moon and mountains. I waited out this appearance of indecision to see whether or not they’d land near you.
 
 
 
 


For forty-five years, LEIGH JORDAN has lived near the dairies and vineyards of Sonoma County just north of San Francisco. She attends various writing workshops in an on-going effort to improve her craft. She has had five poems published, two in The Story Teller and three in Stolen Light.


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