flycatcher

by Steven Searcy

It’s warm for early March,

and the phoebes are feasting

on flies too small to be seen

unless backlit by the soft sun

streaming through the branches

that are still mostly empty

but will soon be unfolding

with a grandeur unmatched

by the staggering boasts of men

who think they can tame the sky,

or build something that will last,

or catch a fly.

Steven Searcy lives with his wife and three sons in Atlanta, GA, where he works as an engineer in fiber optic telecommunications. His poetry has been published in Ekstasis, Reformed Journal, Fathom Magazine, Heart of Flesh, and Amethyst Review, among others.