Pastoral

by Gillian Dawson

If I squint, the towering trees
are transformed
back into pylons,
all angular branches.

Low sun slanting
through briars becomes    
a warehouse security light
grazed by wire thorns.
    
Crows’ black crosses
sky reverberating
with jet noise. A flock

gathers in the shadows.
The shepherd will sleep lightly,
listening for the crisp clip

of falling leaves
startling

into breaking glass.