Friday, May 20, 2011

The sky has come to rest in our swale.
On the first day, little girls stripped
Clothes and squealing, jumped into its cold. Today,
Just below this red house, clouds float
with the mallard pair.  Swallows dip
Through blue and grey changes, framed
By fallen thatch where green grows,
Weaving through. When the wind blows,
As it does in May, the sky ripples to white chop
And bright red wings of blackbirds flash
From swaying cattail tops. All winter, it was
A brown hole where we found tracks
Of wandering fox, coyote, bird, deer,
But now, wakes of aimless ducks
Disappear into sky’s wide capture
Where my eyes rest and wings stretch
In answer to frogsong and mysterious cries
In late darkness.