There are days, I’m a bird
Capable of flight
Have my wings extended
So far the stretch tingles
The feathers of red and brown.
For I am a three inch Roma tomato
Flying with brown feathers
On round fat sides;
Flittering through the cottonwoods
Turning yellow, gold and orange
With the cold of the autumn nights
Approaching quickly along the banks
Of dry Southwestern rivers.
Dry as bones picked clean by vultures
Cold as only an Arizona night can become.
All rights reserved. ©2009 by Sara Fryd