• POETRY •
Yahara Winter II
“here I go
into the wide gardens of
waste fields blue glass clear glass
and other rubbishes blinking…”
– Mary Oliver, “Wrens”
oh the white snow
unshoveled this morning
a museum of footprints
as they leap one to another
last night’s myths
along the roads something
like coal spilt
a dirty white
and the lochs at Tenney
crystal and sunburnt
where I run across
a young hawk
who does not move
a sentry from the garden
waiting there alone
its tight light brown
garment a uniform
eyes as sharp
as silver buttons
and I step among
the foot tracks
to watch its next move
before it flips
its flying mechanism
up into the prickly elm
full of the explosion
of sunbits