We were wondering about how spring
and the wood thrush return, gentle
until their eggs need defending,
and my eyes crossed at the horrible thought
that I had to chase the chipmunks
from their warrens along the house
and down the side of the pool wall,
out of suspicious nests amid anthills
and under the unruly ivy.
The fluting thrush, at least,
try hiding higher.
Back-pedaling across the lawn
to see late July light whiten
old siding and pine rails,
the eaves-hung lettuce and basil
we part delicately and harvest
darken to violet in the on-set night.
I stop where the gate will be,
heft of the barely grasped rocks
will lay here, the ground unswaying.
I rely on the ground to stay.