• 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