Lynn Davidson

A Hillside of Houses Leaves

Steeped in weather the old wooden houses
remember their bird-selves and unfold
barely-jointed wings.

Separating pleat from pleat
weatherboard beaks gape

door frames spring apart into
the steeple shape of breastbones

there is a woody straining
then the clatter of press and lift
and dozens of pairs of outstretched
wings slow-beat.

The mainland shuffles back
the sea floods underneath.

Splinters feather frost-burr
along leeched beams.

People curl inside
the bones that keep them
that will not keep them long.