True Story

 The red-shouldered hawk was sitting near and 

menacing 

a family of robins in the maple in our back yard

Then, mom and dad robin began 

yelling 

yelling down the hawk, 

from a distance, 

complaining about his presence

Mother and father were joined by three, 

then a dozen other robins, 

all squawking and yelling at the hawk

who still sat there

menacing

the smaller birds

One of the robins 

(the mom, I suspect, because, Moms) flew 

right up 

to the hawk and 

barked in his face

Other robins also got closer 

soon, even more robins joined in 

and then 

two cardinals and 

other birds I couldn't recognize

little sparrows maybe

all yelling at the hawk

I think they were saying

We are not your prey.

I Could Wait

I could wait

for the rain to stop

for a better day

for a sign

for ever

Or I could not wait

And let the rain fall

like a fresh reminder

on my dry-worn head

baptized in showers

and floods

filled to over-flowing

swamped
with a deeply wet grace

In the Honeysuckle Swamp

In the honeysuckle swamp

where paths roam like brambles

getting lost is the point

Written in Runes

To the woods
he wandered
searching for secrets
in a cool spring rain
for the forest
in the springtime
is a book
written in runes

The Phoenix and Me

The turkey vulture circled above me

in the evening sky

black on a darkening blue

He soared in the shadow of the hills

as the sun set ever lower
and the Gray assumed strength

And then
the buzzard slowly

circled higher until
in his calm grace-full arc
he rose past the shade
from the trees
into the light of
the deep gold setting sun

and then

the lowly vulture exploded

into bright bronze and red

a phoenix afire

beautiful beyond words

And yet,

the bird had not changed

still, a turkey vulture

still, a carrion feeder

still the same loathesome

bird of death

The buzzard was the same

but I had changed

All the Moss Creek

 All the moss creek

phlox stone

wonder-making

black oak

roaming through 

the new woods

looking for a

dew-soaked

congregation

conjuration

deeply wild

flirtation

with the Lady

of the Stream

Yes, yes

with that Lady 

hidden smartly

deep within the Stream

Slumber

I noticed the first raindrop

on that last Saturday of winter

because it landed on my nose

The second hit me square

in the eye as I tilted my head back

in casual curiosity

The third, fourth and fifth fell

in a drumbeat on the hollow log 

at my feet

these were generous

healthy raindrops

that made certain promises

that were full of gravity

and humor

that knew what they knew

and didn't suffer questions

or fools

lightly

After that, I lost count

and listened to the rhythm

rather than reckon with numbers

I slumbered in that final rain