Charles Ghigna

In the backyard of my father’s house a hen’s warm neck once filled the center of my pale fist. Her place on the stump still wears my shadow like a stain.

If I could hold light in my hand I would give it to you and watch it become your shadow.

You marched into the gray eyes of dawn feeling older than the bones that held their ground like grazing, aged cattle waiting, eyes closed to the wind, on a winter, slaughter morning. You searched through the fog for a sign, but there was no sun to burn the way, no burst of rainbow bridge to keep you from the cattle call.

His hand in hold so trigger-tight its blood believes in ghosts. It clings with finger set on steel and waits inside a dream of ducks. The twilight burns into a rising arc of eastern sky as sun reveals herself too proud and instantly receives full-face a splash of mallard flock. A shotgun blasts the yellow into streaming pinks and gives the creek its new-day taste of echoed blood. Two green head ghosts fly through the pulse of dawn upon a trigger’s touch. The creek empties of sound. In silence human fingers find wet feet of web and carry in each hand a bird whose only cry comes in color.

In their yellow-most goings, leaves of maple ride breezes to the ground. You can hear their sound each autumn afternoon as the crisp air cuts through the trees and hurries us along the golden sidewalks home.