my father told me where the grand lodge 
once sat at the top of the bluffs overlooking 
a vast saltwater estuary next to the Pacific 

he said the birds which used to thrive here 
were so numerous that when a rifle cracked 
open the July silence the birds would eclipse 

the sun but so many were killed by wealthy 
businessmen away from their families 
with all of the other men hiding 

with cold phallic shafts in their hands 
that by the ’50s few birds could be seen 
except for the regal blue herons 

perched in the imported palms 
which they did not kill because they 
were too like themselves 

and whenever we drove by the spot 
where the building once stood 
i looked up there and could almost see 

the specter of its oil-bathed bulk 
its glimmerless dormer windows eyeing 
each falling bird and could almost hear 

the ghostly roar of wings and wings 
and wings 

Scott Ferry

As an RN in the great Pacific Northwest, Scott Ferry helps our Veterans heal. In other lives, he taught English and practiced acupuncture. He also serves as Senior Editor at Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor, and his writing appears in American Journal of Poetry, Cultural Weekly, KYSO Flash, MacQueen’s Quinterly, Misfit, Noble/Gas Qtrly, Slippery Elm, Spillway, and Swimming with Elephants, among others.

His third book of poetry, These Hands of Myrrh, is upcoming from Kelsay Books. His first collection, The only thing that makes sense is to grow, was published by Moon Tide Press in December 2019, and his second, Mr. Rogers kills fruit flies, by Main Street Rag in October 2020.

Author’s website: https://ferrypoetry.com