The great spastic glass of the sun
in winter’s going glare.
Wind’s antic helicoid
winding upward through the tree.
Circles of wind rapture
the young hawk flashes through.
A robin’s nest she stops
that blooms above a reef of cream.
Vernal silver the house is steeped in.
Soaring vulture’s shadow dowsing
the hillside’s sunlight—
Others roosting. Wings in hieroglyph
a glossy pitch
I need that noonday moon
hanging in the sky.
The sawing strokes a warbler sings.
What is this
anteworldly lunar syrup
spores of life course along
cresting through the thawed crust
mayapples like seaside parasols shelter
in spring shade?
An oriole narrating his involvement with some blossoms.
That house sparrow splash landing in the lilacs.
August evening’s earlier ending
when thought itself sublimes.
Talk’s vanishing esses in the cicadas’ cycling ratchets.
New Day Rising
Sun on pine.
Morning’s glittering indices.
“This stuff is Ice Age.”
waning lustrous late autumnal sun
wind’s distant engine roar
i. Lakeshore’s bluish dusk mid-November dims down.
ii. That’s the lake’s glaucous glass a cormorant’s invisible vortex scratches.
iii. An accidental eternity the lake’s waves swell with mist enlumes in aerosol.