Harvest
Yesterday, an Indiana rabbit’s
intention to cross the road
fell short under the wheels
of a two-ton truck loaded with corn
where now a vulture feeds
in spite of harvest traffic, pecking
and tearing, bent on gorging itself,
lifting here and there to a rocky
hover, then dropping to a quick
purchase as the blare of a horn
triggers two steps back
to a heavy lift, wings flapping
like black sheets, but only
out of harm’s way for a wait
and see while others gather,
dark cousins eyeing down
from the tell-tale circle to try
their luck in the dust and grime
of a county line road, on either side
the ragged remains of perfect
rows where Shawnee women
once walked their hunger,
perhaps with song, so unlike
the cut and thresh of a combine.
A retired teacher of English and photography, Roger Pfingston has new poems in recent issues of I-70 Review, Salt, Sheila-Na-Gig, Naugatuck River Review, and Valparaiso Poetry Review. His chapbook, What’s Given, is available from Kattywompus Press.