Omens

The locusts have returned
to town; their pale bodies
drop in the alleys along
the pavement of the downtown,
dying, rest in the spaces
between abandoned stores.
On the ledge of a ragged
gift shop I see one crouched
on spindly legs, its black eyes alien.

Alone they are not threatening,
but when they aggregate, they blind
you with their ravenous flight,
strip bare the stalks and leave them
to mock the orange, low
hanging harvest moon.

When one hurtles across
my windshield, for a moment
I become that pagan tutored
in an outworn creed. I see
in its shadow slipping
past the tunnel of my headlights
a witch on a broom made
of bundled willow branches.