Some mornings we take fog
too seriously, like a school bus
strobing its route more slowly
than by rote, more the pace of
a straight man than class clown.
There is danger in it, we say,
dismissing any chance of mockery.
We can’t see the humor,
the oil of black walnut husks
greasing the walk, or a squirrel’s
slapstick of acorn profligacy.
It’s just not … Continue Reading ››
Crow spots the slither in high weeds
next to the roadway; crow knows
what this creature wants and needs.
Flies down, lands a hop away,
caws, flaps, puffs out the heart-energy
of his dark breast. Forked tongue
senses warmth, seeks. Sinuations of barreled flesh,
taut and muscled around the flexings of rib cage, advance;
dangerous beast: a slinking machine
of fangs, a … Continue Reading ››
It looks soft nosing through the clover
and I’m happy to have it here
or if not happy … Continue Reading ››