by Eleanor Ross Taylor
Some night this rasping of green wings will metamorphose to propellerspluck this village off the mountain peeling topsoil
rhododendrons from ravines
lift the slowly waking deer and echo fawn peeling pulling plucking up
the willing chapel windows flashing tumbling moonlight peeling softlywith a lyric grace
the graveyard raising rain-gnawed markers "Miss Charlotte Elliott and"John Orley Allen Tate" with these loud wings invisible but green
clapping a distant clapping
as in an auditorium closed to one out in the vestibule the whole domainon wing
over the breath-stealing valley over twanging Nashville the reddenedMississippi over long exoduses crawling vaporous warriors
Sewanee night deployed wing- by wingload around the stars drummedinto heaven first without form and void
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