Sean Hill

For Arnold Rampersad Shadows bluing the snow, the pines’ and mine, bear the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown I note as I find my way about this town. Blues here more likely the Nordic-eyes kind than the blue-black of some Black folk back home. Here so many lakes reflect the sky’s blue dome; some summer days skimmed-milk blue tints windblown whitecaps. Blue’s an adjective, verb, and noun, and the color of the world when I pine because she’s gone leaving too much wine and time. Blue shadows on the snow, mine and the pines’. For a tall man, blue ox, and now me, home is Bemidji, though the blues here around more the cast of a kestrel’s blue-gray crown than the blue-black of my cousins back home.