february garden

1.
finally the birds
invite me to their party
I bring sunflower
seeds found in bits and tatters
to scatter singing like thanks

2.
these found me wanting
green things curled beneath old leaves
still light-ly dozing

february pond, 3

a still life in geese
on the pale stubble field
necks arched
we are all for the moment
motionless, stunned by sun

february pond, 2

the man—white hair, red jacket—
in golf cart gleefully sweeping
the hillside, full speed
(full gaggle, the birds lift
from grass and sun-sparked water
hang just overhead, then wheel
away into the distance, raucous
indignant)
now driving my direction
he asks if I want some geese

*

still, I consider the pond’s ruffled surface
while the wind-fluffed sparrow, shrub-top
eyes me with suspicion

february pond

a fine day to leave the path
feet crunching wheat-pale turf—
across the glass-hard pond

(surface bliss-blue, willow gold)
this subdued troop of geese
treks on, south and south: sunward

Birds, December

the cardinal
a splash of red
on swaying graywhite
tree, fat flakes drifting
driftless wonder
leached bleached or drained
? know-not constant
ceaseless wind a film of
ice in the birdbath
dove flaps and settles
hawk silent still
drawing the eye again
a splash of red
on snow

I was going to let this one languish, but Kerfe inspired me with this lovely post.

december pond

skate-thin or fist-deep ?
ice smooth and still; three bold crows
crown the five-eyed tree

The Nature of Things

Hawk on the fence, intent
looking away; cat on cold stone
watching. A small cat, no bigger
than a rabbit, but perhaps more
than a mouthful with tooth
and claw. Serene, she can see
that for all its size, sleekness, sharp
beak and scream, it’s clearly
merely a bird.

All these geese

basking roadside, pondside, sun-
side, ignoring thunderous trucks,
whizzing cars, even the thump
and whine of the garbage collector—
but humans are something else
altogether, and all together, uneasy
at my approach, they turn their heads,
long necks, move in smooth unison
closer to the water. A few startle,
take wing at a runner’s passing
breeze, plunge into the pond,
three white furrows and four more
behind, wings wide then down,
tail feathers shaken into place—
and what a goose I am, trail-walking
roadside, pondside, sun-side,
to startle as the first man runs up
and past, and again to turn my head,
uneasy, when the second, walking,
overtakes me.

The Little Things

fall browns down backyard
prairie waves goldenpurple
goodbye, hummingbird

Garden Door Revolving

Not truly revolving
on the whim of a cat—
only the human is automatic

*

Hummingbirds dart through
a whirl or two
by the feeder. Faster
than any soon-to-close
opening

*

What greater joy
than looking ahead
wondering through
the other side?
A communion
with the wisdom of cats

*

Taking these things in turn,
I plan a larger garden.
String staked out, rectangular
like door-panes laid flat.
The days unspool
birch leaves teasing the sun