Pheasant Resurrection

At the intersection,

dim at dawn, carnage

on my way to work,

a pall over routine,

any ambition faded,

feathers, color askew,

sienna, umber, ochre –

that placid blue-gray

mimicked mourning doves.

Just yesterday, the pheasant

pecked happily at bugs,

perversely, too often,

tempting tires, fenders.

I missed the stark day

at noon, the definition,

township man, Joe

of Arimathea scraping

evidence from asphalt.

Then, a glorious vision,

(where’s the seraphim?)

coming home at dusk,

same indistinct light,

there, there! his ghost

or a resurrection,

cock-sure apparition,

red crown bobbing,

strutting like a rooster,

prince of his dominion,

as if nothing occurred,

my anguish irrelevant.

Thomas, no doubt,

placed a reservation

for supper at Emmaus.

David Sapp, writer and artist, lives along the southern shore of Lake Erie in North America. A Pushcart nominee, he was awarded Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Grants for poetry and the visual arts. His poetry and prose appear widely in the United States, Canada, and the United Kingdom. His publications include articles in the Journal of Creative Behavior, chapbooks Close to Home and Two Buddha, a novel Flying Over Erie, and a book of poems and drawings titled Drawing Nirvana.