I am walking a small dog who seems eager to go, hell, anywhere.
It's an April evening and windy,
the dog spooks at what ever sound the world has:
leaves flitting across the road,
hollow growls from far backyards,
two boys dueling with whiffle bats.
Up against the nearly full moon, six birds are playing circles.
I want to call them hawks,
squinting, believe they could be eagles,
then wonder if they are turkey vultures.
Night is taking the berry red stems, lemon colored buds,
one red wing blackbird predicting the next
a hundred meters away.
These are the lyric and chorus
in a rolling landscape song of the Taconic Hills.