by David Starkey
It was there Monday morning
when we all drove off to work,
delicate claws clutching the luminous
white steeple, long pelican beak
jutting above the yellow tobacco fields.
“Good news,” said my neighbor,
Mr. Hill, stroke-smile twitching.
“A sign.” His wife nodded, Yes.
You’d think a dinosaur perched
on a House of God would stir a fuss,
but in the Carolina hinterlands
no one expects less than miracles.
Children at the daycare named it
“Angel Bird” and clapped
when it yawned or blinked its eyes.
The church was east of me, so sunrises
were spectacular, though my favorite time
was late evening, sipping beer
as Bubbas whizzed past in pick-up trucks.
The sky was blue-black canvas;
the creature, vanishing point.
Sunday morning’s choir
led the congregation in wild thanks.
Yet, as Fate (perhaps) would have it,
never having joined that sect,
I was the only one to see it go,
stretching its wings once, then flapping
like a great awkward vulture
into the prehistoric sun.
David Starkey is a former Santa Barbara poet laureate and emeritus professor at Santa Barbara City College, where he was founding director of the creative writing program. His most recent collections of poetry are Tell Me Why (BlazeVOX, 2025), The Moon Shall Not Give Her Light (Vine Leaves Press, 2025) and You, Caravaggio (Pine Row Press, 2024).