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Small bones of contention
A Counting
Two crowsāno, threeāplus their giant
shadows, swoop through the pines.
I tell you, the shadows count for something.
Why all this swirling of black capes,
fast, toward me? Fling nothing
across my shoulders, you glossy bad omens.
Six cronies (or is it three?) in the yard,
a covenant of crows. They know something.
One wanders so close I shudder. The others
swagger about and suddenly the warm afternoon
is an argument of seven crooks at the feeder.
One, on the feederās roof, glints my way
then tilts his big head upside down
to reach the seed on the tray beneath his big feet.
Another, vying for Top Crow, lands beside him
and the feeder sways on its little pole.
Hold itāthis is a heist, they seem to say
before they lose their balance and flee.
Five, then four, pick over the plenty
like dumb thieves left at the scene, greedy
for the lootāold seed, bare ground, hulls.
Morning Song
The rooster I do not have blinks
and struts his glossy history in the pen
I want to build beside the garage.
āNo,ā my husband says, āpens
belong behind garages.ā
I want to watch my rooster pick
through the dayās minutiae, my neighbors
listening for his early call, dreading it
the way I tolerate, late afternoons,
the baying of their deerhounds.
Every day he ruffles feathers.
Three young hens in the chicken yard
(and the brown leghorn Iāll buy at the fair)
admire his hot temper and fleshy comb.
They fuss over the right to ignore him.
I love roosters, the way I love
sonatas and the Song of Solomon.
The love Iād feel for this rooster
canāt live up to his diligent crowing
nor the curve of his spurs, his perfect feet.
Guitar
On any given night it picks its way
down the canyon, one step
almost in front of the otherāagile enough
to slip by whatever spells trouble.
Forget fear. It slides down rocks, if it has to,
to reach bottom. By day, a red bandana
or straw hat, and why not?
No map, just crosshatch and parallel.
It inhales the heat, and the pinched cold
creeping off the mountain.
It lives alone, turns its back to the wolves.
Say itās a tin cup with bent handle.
Peyote in full bloom. A train
pulling rich cargo across the horizon.
Tequila. A thumbnail piercing the skin
of a lime, the ripe shower that follows.
The One Place
Most Sundays we donāt attend, never did
except the fall my father died, and went then
because we had just moved to Minnesotaā
new job, relocationāand feeling lost,
Blue and I turned to what weād each known
as children when once a week weād suffered
the hard pew, listening and praying,
mostly squirming, as we waited for something
to take hold. But year after year
when we go fishing, most often in spring,
boat trailer in tow, and get ahead of ourselves
with anticipation of the largemouths
waiting in the lily pads and miss
the narrow lake road to the right, its sign
hidden by an overgrowth of myrtles,
especially when itās early and still dark,
thatās when we look for the steeple
and empty parking lot. The one place open
without a locked gate, without a guard
dog or chain or No Trespassing,
the one place allowing usā
before weāve gone too many miles
in the wrong directionāto enter
its wide, forgiving drive and turn around.
The Catch
Salt in my mouth, the chalk
of the weight between my teeth.
The tide leaves the creek.
I coil, uncoil
to cast the net.
Timing is all.
I know this
but can do nothing to get it right.
My husband knows the balance
of circles,
the trust he puts in the center.
Carefulness is not his
yet I see the arc
of his right hand, palm up
to twirl the net.
Youāre trying too hard, he says,
and it occurs to me
thatās where the lines tangle.
I watch his dance.
In his left hand a veil,
folded over, as if once again
he gives her away,
the young...
