 |
| Waiting its turn |
Nothing decided.
Nothing resolved.
So much to think about
with nothing to say,
the sun lower without me,
lackluster.
Evening drifts cool through the trees,
nuthatches and chickadees piping,
popping the air under the slow-dying pine
for a late perch on the feeder
to carry off one sunflower seed at a time
into the hemlocks, then back for another,
safe in the dusk from the hawk
who strikes in broad light,
the small, gray birds nourished and content,
weaving their poetry one seed at a time.
I sat until dark,
then loaded firewood by headlamp,
one split at a time.
Orion rose out of the woods.
I sat on the porch, Uni-ball in hand.
Often the last line comes first,
and the rest follow,
one at a time.
