After the Play
Thousands blacken barren maple trees outside St. Mary’s church,
chatter in extended family groups, though night’s moisture glitters, falls.
We leave the theater, skirt the square, climb slick steps
toward a gothic door. Shapes swarm, dim as fish in deep sea water.
In winter, city air is clean, there is little trash, no seeds,
just bitter salt and purple snow, yet thousands roost.
Each year we stare into the gravel of their voices.
Each year, holier than it was before.
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