Black-Shouldered Kites

Like satisfaction unfurling on
an August day, I watch two kites
hover over a just-harvested
corn-field — marking stray hoppers
and voles, while late morning thermals
massage away the haze, and driving
north on I-5, glance east and west
to see both Sierra Foothills
and Coastal Range, gilded in late
summer grass, with a scatter of
grey-green live oaks — the Sacramento
Valley resembling nothing so much
as a giant taco — cilantro
strewn randomly on the edges
of these tortilla mountains — the kites
now just flapping wings suspended
in mid-air — reflected in my left
side mirror, shrinking, until they’re
just periods typed on a page
of sky, and my brow furrows as I
wonder whether all my deeds
and intentions dispersed into
the universe have shifted this
disheartened planet even a
millimeter — back towards its proper
orbit.

Gary D. Grossman
Rust and Moth, November 2022