Poems

Mornings

Another gift since the start of July

has been listening to a veery in the morning
fluting from the sumac-tangle up beyond the barn
as I walk that rise.

I am used to hearing that haunting
in the evening from the darkness
crouching along the creek; counterpointed
by lightning bugs at that changing of the guard,

but in the morning the singing seems
less an ode to quiet countryside
and more a fanfare for me -
as though the kingdom belongs to us both.

July 21

Being here

My criss-crossing paths
through the Summer goldenrod
are mown fairways eight-feet wide;
avenues for evening walks to the river,
but also boulevards for turkeys and deer
and, perhaps, shopping-aisles
for the young red-tail hawk
who has made my matrix his turf.

We watched him
perched and preening for forty-five minutes
atop the wind-lashed power pole
and we hear him each day
at every hour somewhere
among the encircling tree-tops
creeing from the crow patrols
or just squawking - adolescent as he is.

But to my point; my paths,
I realize, are ready-made enfilades
for his sweeping hungry eyes.
Creating them has prepared a table for him.
And so, like the wren and phoebe
who found me useful to trim and notch
the wild world for them to build a home,
this hawk, the new blood, might stay also
for my being here.

July 21