MARCH 6, 2018

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