Like a dog wailing somewhere

far to the south, maybe

a coyote, or maybe hound dogs

chasing the coyote.

 

Yesterday, a black and white bird flew into

a glass window. I slid maple bark beneath

the shape that once was a bird,

toss the still mass out past the woodpile,

for the crows.

 

Crows caw above the wail.

 

In the still morning, the black

and white bird has been moved

closer to the porch.

A chickadee pecks

the shape

no longer a bird.

A lone shape sits high

on an overhanging branch,

hunts alone.

Spread before his dark outline

he sees a crispy white, winter morning.

 

The writer receives a true gift,

catches a vision of the eagle,

the solitary hunter

high on a pulpit. Like a

Sunday morning preacher,

the proud Eagle projects more than

words, transmits a warm feeling,

emanates a confidence,

for an immeasurable moment,

all is right with the world.

 

Golden Winter Morning

 

The first day of winter follows

the longest night

Up early, before the sun, warming

days forecast, enough to melt

a week’s snow.

Deer active, plow through the white cover to reach

green clover below. As I plow piles, make a path

so the smiling mail lady can reach the box in

her Jeep.

She brings cards of the season. Some with decorated trees,

Angels, snowy wood, the Magi. Some have deer who stand and

stare from a winter field.

Like the one who watches me.

My back aches from sitting so still

on a cold chair, hidden

on a hay wagon , inside

a makeshift hut.

Time to think, time

to squirm, rub my hands

together. Time to

wait for the majestic buck I have seen

on a camera, at midnight. Six tall points, rise

to the sky like pinnacles. An enviable prize, yet

perhaps I will not pull the trigger should he come by.

He will not show in daylight, so why worry? Why stress

over an event that will not occur?

 

Evening comes gently, a shadow slowly creeping through

stands of trees. Shapes appear at the edge

of a far field. Four, then suddenly a few more, in groups, scattered yet

together. A herd, and the darkness grows and I cannot distinguish

except for size. Yearlings still play around mother’s feet. A large doe

leads the way, closer, slow and closer, the deer browse.   I watch,

suspended and tense, and make no sound, and disguise any movement.  I swing

a scoped barrel from doe to doe.   I count twenty gentle creatures

without horns, who munch serenely on alfalfa.  Spread out on the pasture

before me as if attending a party, talking in groups, enjoying the buffet.

Snow squeaks on wooden porch boards
Minus one, sun reflects from white drifts
outdoors, the world is flushed, blushing
invigorated, yet
no stir of wind.
Sweet smell of split maple
Black oval sunflower seeds sink deep below the feeder
Snow melts on hearthstone
from the warmth of the flame
A half cord should last a few days

Please enjoy the poem.