Submitted by Jane Blanchard
at the Georgia bite
A glance through glass reveals the awesome sight
of clouds approaching, billowing above
the ocean. Tonal changes—gray to white
and white to gray—occur each second of
the minute soon to be a quarter-hour.
Outside by then, phone ready, I take three
quick pictures, even though I know the power
of nature overwhelms photography.
I keep the only shot which comes close to
approximating memory; but when
I go about enlarging it, the view
is marred by specks. I wipe, and wipe again,
before I recognize what must be birds—
a happenstance deserving these few words.
About the Poet
Jane Blanchard lives and writes in Georgia. Her work has recently appeared in The Asses of Parnassus, Lighten Up Online, Peacock Journal, and Snakeskin. Her collections—the shorter Unloosed and the longer Tides & Currents—are available from Kelsay Books.