The Only Noise

Marshall Schacht

The vane is taking weather from the west.
The rooster crows into the blowing wood,
The shaking barn is locked below his breast.

His soldier neck leans to the master storm
That must be met by stubborn figurehead
Pouring past evil. See his gilded form,
Erect and blind, and crowing through its hood
The only noise that bugles to the dead.