But There are Novembers Buttercups
Ginger follows me, which i think bad luck
until he flushes fox sparrows. the fox sparrows
are not as reddish as i expected, but they do
stand out. twenty or more killdeer take off like
successful plaintiffs. anywhere i look is flocks.
you know what they say about groups. even
the chickens are out–all thousand of them.
even catch a pair of hawks–you dont usually.
and i watch them take turns in flight, traversing
trees, their red tails peach-pink in my glass really
glow. behind them in the treeline i spot what cld
be their nest. if so, this real state i walk just sky-
rocketed in personal value.
hawks enormous tails aflame spread like
fans that fan flames. brown wings from this
point seem owl-wide. i hear my private kestrel,
for the first time, then see her slate-blue arms
work. a huge mess of doves takes off. you can
tell a single dove by the sound of its flutter.
and now i hear one leaf shake. and now a
Carolina chickadee—and ill be damned if
i dont find her, and ill be damned if i ever do!
i light a smoke and sit by a beehive gaping
in a tree trunk low to the ground. i start when
i see i smoke next to a mouse skeleton. eyell go
anywhere the lambs ear grows, i muse quietly,
think ive seen the last of the asters.
Bree is a poet, publisher and artist, and one of the editors of Least Bittern Books. She also made up Green Panda Press in 2001 which continues to put out hand-made poetry and art books, anthologies, gatefolds, little books and sundry. Her LBB paperback is available here.