Nancy Correro

Wintering Wood Storks

We stopped counting
at forty-three

so many wood storks
in water reeds.

Each bird flapping wings
like Jolly Rodgers at sea.

Black and white,
they fill the southern sky

with snow,

snow,

snow.

Over barns and fields
they float. Their call, a strange

squall that ripples
the once quiet winter.

-

Aubade

We step out of the nightclub
and the early orange fog finds us.
Like two creatures from a crypt
we squint and meet morning.
Our clothes wet from dancing,
we clasp hands in the parking lot
that at night glitters with light
and cars and we are stars.
We kiss and taste night’s magic.
We hold it close and step into the day.