Art and Nature
He's plugged in so only he can hear
and he paints by playing, letting guitar chords splat
on a purple background like vertical birds flying
in a line across the computer screen,
wings spread for sustained notes, blank spaces
for pockets in between–bird, space, bird, space,
regular as planted rows.
Outside, weed sparrows flit down from a low branch
and search the ground for chicken feed,
with the squeaks and fight squawks
of the feral. They flap rapid and hop like fluff.
I borrow an earbud and watch him sow a riff.
I'm waiting for a flock to sprout—
for notes to lift off, scatter and soar.
Sarah Carleton writes, edits, plays the banjo and home-schools her son in Tampa, Florida. Her poems have appeared in Houseboat, Burning Word Literary Journal, Avatar Review, Poetry Quarterly, The Bijou Poetry Review, Off the Coast, Shark Reef, Wild Violet Magazine, The Binnacle and Cider Press Review. She has work upcoming in Nimrod, The Homestead Review and Chattahoochee Review.