Another Kind of Sky
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I found a clutch of bluejay feathers
scattered around a tree stump–
no carcass to be found. Did the bluejay
breathe its last in a fox’s mouth?
Did the other bird inside itself, lift, like
a swirl of birdsong in the shape of its body—
flying—into another kind of sky?

When it Lands
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I wonder if, to the falling leaf,
their descent feels like a thousand years.
Maybe time is absorbed into itself,
only to start again when it lands.

Little Wing
by Radiance Angelina Petro

I was given so many feathers
on my walk this morning.
I tucked each one between my thumb
and first two fingers. It was like
I was growing a little wing
out of my hand.

Steampunk Soldiers
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I.
There were spider-cricket tracks
in the lavender powder that had drifted
down to the dark, hardwood floor
in the bathroom, after I had sprinkled some
in my underwear the night before.

I got down on my hands and knees
to get a closer look. Not only were the claw tracks
visible, but I could see where it’s absurdly-long
feelers swished back and forth, scanning
the area ahead.

II.
If you go outside, there’s a two-hundred-year-old shed
built into the stone wall. If you open it, you’ll see dozens
of spider-crickets, with their humped, armored
backs, and they’re long hind-legs, on the ceiling
and on the walls, and if you stand long enough, one by one,
they drop to the ground, and in a few moments
they’re gone, assembled somewhere I’m sure,
like an army of steampunk soldiers, planning
to see who goes in next to scout the Barn.

Mouth Full of Blue Jay
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Its mouth full of Blue Jay,
the satiny, rust-colored fox emerged
from the cornfield on one side of the path
only to disappear into the one on the other.
Its manner nonchalant—it  completely ignored me
as it looped across, not ten-feet away.

Of course, I got to wondering.
I always arrive at wondering,
and that in itself, is a wonder.

So, what does a mouth of Blue Jay taste like?
Was the fox carrying it to eat a solitary breakfast,
curled in silence, unable to eat slowly,
or did she bring it to feed her kits
who were also unable to eat slowly?

All I know is that a satiny, rust-colored fox
emerged from one side of the cornfield
only to disappear on the other side,
its mouth full of Blue Jay.

Rabbit Skull
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Up past the white-crowned clover patch,
and the stacks of firewood in the woodshed, up past
the late-July cornfield with its stalks growing
yellow tassels from the newly forming
tightly-swaddled ears of corn, I found a rabbit skull
on the ground beneath a linden tree. It had clearly
been there awhile, and I’m surprised I hadn’t noticed it before.
I picked it up gently by the eye socket and examined its rows
of molars leading up to the curved incisors at the end of its mouth.

Of course I got to thinking about the surprise of being caught
and how wide its eyes must have been, and how hard its heart
must have beat, and how long it was before the last.
I thought about how the flesh of the rabbit was long-ago
digested in the belly of a fox, where it turned into milk for her kits,
and it was hard not to smile and weep at the same time,
it was hard not to stand and wonder, looking up
at the morning sky, it was hard not to lift the little skull
towards that self-same sky, and pray.

Full of the Moon
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Near the edge of the brush along the path
there are flattened places where the deer
must have hunkered down for the night, after
eating their fill of corn.

What do you dream about—if you dream at all?
If you do, I hope you don’t have nightmares
involving bears, or the hypnotizing high-beams
of a fast-approaching car.

I hope your dreams are filled with vast
stretches of fields far away from the roads,
unencumbered by factories, shopping malls,
and houses.  I hope you dream of grazing
all night beneath the stars, your hearts full of the moon.

Washing the Feathers
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Standing at the kitchen sink,
gently washing and smoothing
(from calamus to tip) the bluejay feather
I found on the path, and the woodpecker feather
I found near the Barn, I kept thinking:
these were once attached to bodies with hollow bones—
ones that flew, ones that slept in the trees—
and I wondered at how many feathers
the bluejay and woodpecker still had,
and why they dropped these particular ones,
and how high they were flying when they did,
I wondered if they knew they had loosened them
into the sky, I wondered if they felt them go,
I wondered too if I will feel the feathers
dropping from my soul as I fly through the world.

Part of Me
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

I have a bin of toys and a bin of musical instruments
in the living room. One has things, like an old Etch-a-Sketch,
a blue, felt elephant on wheels you can roll across the floor,
an old Fisher-Price camera with ready-made pictures
of farm animals in the viewfinder, shark bubble-shooters,
and, of course, purple and green bottles of bubbles–complete with wands.
There’s a bendy-gorilla, a couple of those things you press down,
then wait for them to pop up into the air, there’s a cow that moos
when you tip it, the boardgame “Candyland,” and a deck of go-fish cards,
among other things. The instrument box is full
of little tambourines—one even has faded, blue, pink, and green
streamers attached, there are multiple shakers—some shaped like
eggs, some like pears, some like giraffes, others like rhinos,
there are kinds like the ones Davey Jones played while singing
“I’m a Believer,” on the Monkees TV show,
there are hand-held blocks of wood with sandpaper glued to one side,
there are claves of various sizes, a couple leather straps of Christmas-bells,
among other things. And they’re always there, ready
for the playing, and they remind me, when I see them,
that part of me will happily forever be a child.

The Wonder of it All
by
Radiance Angelina Petro

Turns out we have animals living in the woods
around the Barn big enough to take down a deer.
On my walk this morning, along the edge of the cornfield,
I found the leg of a whitetail deer that had been torn
from its body—the body that was nowhere to be found–
it was bent, like an angled hook–its sleek-hair, dew covered.
It still had strings of meat connected, and its black hoof, like
a petrified piece of charcoal– will forever be saying:
“I just wasn’t fast enough.” I stand up and continue walking
wondering at the wonder of it all.