2 March 2004 | Vol. 4, No. 1

Meditation on the Sorting that Evens Things Out

by JOSHUA POTEAT

You see? If you're picking apples,

              it is pointless to watch the sky,

to sort each starry feather

                            that falls from its transparent perch.

Take those crows waiting

              in the black pine behind the orchard.

They're hungry like most crows are.

                            No surprise.

But listen to the tree of wings!

              The crows are planning something,

and through their hunger

                            all they can see are the branches

so burdened with fruit, so lopsided

              and dense that they begin to rise

in spite of themselves,

                            rise until they can no longer breathe,

until they are blind and small,

              until the apple pickers

strolling home twirl spirals

                            of red skin on their knives,

and spit the seeds

              as high as they can, the dark specks

falling on their heads.

                            You see?

They tore the nests from the pines

              and kept the eggs.

They sorted the good from the bad

                            and didn't look up.