The Absence of Warblers

By the time I arrived where the old birder
Said were warbs, they had, of course, moved on.
I scanned the bramble and canopy
For flutters of colors and strained for a stray trill.
I stared for them until their absence
Calmed my eyes, and the silence of that

Absence stopped my ears. Ripple by
Ripple the pond dimmed its candles.
The earth drew a tattered blue shawl
Over its hilly shoulders, and the shrubs
And groves exhaled the burden of their forms.

I turned back to the trail, when a black fist
Of undergrowth released a green heron 
Into the air. I caught a bit of russet
On its breast as I followed its flight.
The broad wings made two slow flaps—

And two more—and it had crossed the water.
I watched the great maples open their arms
To take it in. Their roots had already receded,
And now their trunks and limbs. Lastly,
The high crowns cloistered themselves
As dusk teetered on the cusp of night.

Prabhakar Vasan lives in New York State's Hudson Valley. His work has been published in 6x6, Tarpaulin Sky, Tricycle, and Caesura.