Farewell

January something, and finches
cry like martyrs from bowed
branches of oaks, rooted
in mulch, pushing the sick
air above the gravel lot,
above me, down, heavy
from twisting west, toward
the falling sun. I look up,
but see only branches, bare
and sky between, empty. Maybe
the chirps carried over
from across the street, from
lesser oaks, sprawled naked,
but unashamed, along the broken
concrete, fronting the off-white
houses, a busted pick-up, up
on blocks in a yard--across
the street, where cars are
revving, undirected by
the sun's setting, shading
this lot like brown autumn
foliage, but beyond, far back
among the fickle shingled houses
hidden, I hear a purple crested
pigeon coo a mourning tune
slow and shrill, above
the city noise, its groan,
the 5:30 rush to get home.
And for a moment, the sun
rests atop a silhouetted
hospital, on the fulcrum
of farewell, then sinks behind
the blackened brickwork. I watch
the light shy gently from my hand.