Winter Solstice
by Gary Young
Birds travel toward the horizon at a distance which makes them indistinguishable. We only know that they seem to be leaving the earth. The glassy bulbs of the iris have worked their way to the surface of the damp soil, and the roots of the pine tree rest on the ground like arthritic knuckles, clumsy, useless, having given up on everything, even themselves. I watch the rain fall after a year of drought, and it settles into the runoff. My yard is a delta of tiny rivers, and the spirit, which must be like water, flows quietly away.














