The world is not what we thought it was.
– Jim Harrison (“Suite of Unreason”)
Much done behind us, I listen in the dark
for predicted rain—like an old friend
I don’t expect to arrive on time, if at all—
wondering if this day is mine to spend
without the human dramas spawned
on flat land for sudden hillsides, or will I
retreat, once again, to cows and calves,
to the chain saw’s whine, go deeper under
the covers of this landscape to pray and
commiserate with my gods, those plural
and lower-cased forces at play that are
indeed the living wonders of this world:
groaking in the tops of gray oak trees,
scarlet hybrids, red-chested sapsuckers
none had seen this far south—bright
harbingers for a cold winter with the bumper
crop of acorns, black upon the ground—a
slim chance beyond that still makes sense.
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