Friday, May 24, 2013

This Bird, Some Time, That Road

Just west of Tuxedo,
Wildcat Mountain weathers
midsummer with dry brook beds,
our line of cars driving wily past
Indian Kill Lake peels a few locals
off to Pumpkin Hill Road
and the rest roll down to Warwick,
weaving deceleration.

Shoulder-side, a green racer escapes
ess-wise to the nearby
jagged granite wall.

Something happens, not grand:
a solid ripple rolls bright green
through the pond where the May
goslings needed no help hatching,
the grounded tercel feeds on
a frankly red and stringy squirrel,
bland, sufficient as the reedy
crane dipped knee-deep in bracken,
calm as the white kitten
sitting like a teed ball on the lawn.

A killdeer plover struts stiffly
across her widow's walk of river stone,
no fooling now.

At Hood River, chaparral heat shoos
rattle snakes into the cool streets.
I see an owl settle  where
some restless rodent didn't,
the rattlers too hot to hunt.
I am here to find an old man,
whom I will pull with the horn of my beak
through the bones of my feet
to fill my future skin and skull.