most days on the lake
i see the red-tailed hawk
slow in deliberate circles

one or both herons
their shadows keeping speed
across the water

butterflies
chaotic in their crossing
from one shore to the other

ripples        of         fish        ripples        of        wind

it was dead
on the side of the road

wings wide with surprise
it's feathers it's eyes

already dull with death
crows are clever birds

but sometimes
they linger too long

in the road
seeking a seed

cracking a nut
poking at

this
and that

mornings        when the whole body hurts
afternoons      when the shadows are so sharp
evenings         when the sky is calloused with stars

when i am lost
please find me

just down the street
along the side of a quiet house
two fox pups sat watching me
they trip trapped through the weeds
and came to rest in the morning cool of the tree shadow

would they venture too far and find themselves in the road?
would they explore the roots and rocks and not see the open aqueduct that runs in front of the house?

see how the birds learn to fly?
watch the butterflies emerge
dry their wings and lift into the world of air

even the weeds stretch
and stand after the long hard press of winter

you can measure each day
by a step or a breath

by a detail nature has put before you
or you can sit there

in the dark
and simply sip from your sorrow

however you please

along one short section
of the timber road

the crows drop walnuts
onto the broken asphalt

the nuts split neatly in half
and then they carefully pick out the meat inside

clever birds
crows

there are days
painted gray with rain

there are nights
when the stars have no meaning

but little things matter
and sometimes

it is that smallest detail
that tiniest foothold

that keeps us
climbing

all day the weather has fussed
rain one moment

sun the next
right now

behind me
the sky is bright blue

and birdless  
the mountains ahead

are webbed heavy grey
and growling

the air has cooled
and rain is imminent

so when was the last time
you were the bright morning light?

when was the last time
you were a storm unfinished?

po       si       ti       on
po       is                 on
po                 ti       on


in
           ten
                      se
in
           ten
           t

the cicadas call
across the lake

a cacophony
that is not entirely unpleasant

a pair of herons
don’t seem to mind

as they make their way
through the braids of blue sky

the deep green
of the water

is unbelievably cold
as there is still snow

in the high mountains
thus is this side of summer

newly leafed
and breathing

if you seek to fall
you will do just that

if you call for the words
sometimes silence is the answer

break off a piece of beauty
you will be surprised