Night in Seattle
by Sarah Rohrs
Singular white feathers, singular notes of their cries above a city street that blend sharply as they pass across the sky. Circling and crying. Circling. Soaring. Crying. Crying. We are not sleeping - the seagulls, the junkies in the parking lot with just one car, and me under a cover but not yet motel cold. No thanks to the sleep of the tortured souls turned away from the church down the block and the angels locked up for the night. Someone drags a suitcase on a sidewalk. Pass of night wings bathed in street light. Circling and crying. Circling and crying. Footsteps in a hallway and the closing of window sashes. To pause mid-flight and discern the notes, sounds, words and the silence above the huddled figures against a white wall. Intermittent flashes of fire, wisps of smoke, burnt plastic and coffee. Hours pass. Then a lighter sky for picking up the beads and muttering prayers. Circling and crying. Circling. Crying. Beaks open and the sound running and weaving through buildings, brushing against windows and brittle weeds, warmth and flowers.
Sarah Rohrs
Sarah Rohrs is a former newspaper reporter and drunk, who now teaches children to read and write while listening closely to their endless chatter. She takes photos, loves trees, pines for other times and places, and has written poetry for eons.
Yes, my old stomping grounds, Seattle, a city of angels and derelicts and of course gulls, made acutely manifest in this piece that passes the earth bound streets that carry earth bound people with the imagination of flight.