Like noisy teenagers
the crow gang
swoops
from tree to tree,
looking to make trouble.

Resting high among the branches
of a three story pin oak tree,
the mother great horned owl
watches the crows’ progress.

Nearby
two fluffy chicks balance
on the edge of a nest basket,
anxiously watching the sky.

Mother’s presence
draws the hostile crows away,
confrontation the only option.

Dive bombing crows
peck at mother’s head
as they sweep past.

In fact,
a great horned owl
can take out a crow
with mastered efficiency.
A fierce predator, this mother owl
chooses the role of hunted
rather than hunter,
all to protect the nest.

Eventually,
the squawky pack
tires of the owl’s steadfast calm.
Where is the fun in that?

Danger gone,
the mother shakes out
her marbled brown and white feathers,
lifts from the oak branch,
and settles on the lip of the nest.

She turns toward her admiring chicks
to supervise breakfast,
as the sun crests
over the tree tops.

In junior high,
I took typing class.
Each day loading a single sheet of white paper
by turning the knob to secure the page
around the cylinder,
until before me sat
a clean slate, a crisp page.

Mastering the keyboard
took time,
an illogical arrangement of letters
causing keys to hammer
ink upon the leaf.

Ever competitive,
I mastered the keys,
hands flying,
words forming like magic.

For my son’s 21st birthday,
we gave him a carefully restored
Royal typewriter,
built before I was born,

He gingerly scrolled the paper,
struck a few keys and marveled
at the clacking sound,
the ding at line’s end.
How ancient the typewriter appeared.

Fingers flying over his phone’s keyboard,
my son sent a thank you text,
along with a photo
of the poem he typed
on creamy white paper.

“It takes a raindrop approximately seven minutes to fall to earth from a 4,000 meter high cloud.” NASA Global Percipitation Measurement

At dawn
a raindrop begins its descent.
The journey will take seven minutes.

Somewhere in the distance
grocery store lights flicker on,
a clerk straightens boxes
on a cereal shelf.

Just down the block
an attendant turns on
the island of gasoline pumps.

Around the corner
grills are wheeled out
in front of the hardware store,
anticipating warmer weather.

Street lamps
begin to flutter out,
as the sun
pulls itself over the horizon.

At the marsh,
I am already deep in the woods
heading toward the bright sound
of a red-headed woodpecker
at work.

Around me —
common yellow throats,
Carolina wrens, black-capped chickadees,
Easter bluebirds,
great horned owls
build a chorus
as the raindrop
hits a supple new leaf.

*inspired by Billy Collin’s “Winter Trivia”.

In the dark hours,
our souls are freed
to contemplate the beauty
of stars.

Last week,
I bundled in darkness
for a predawn walk in the forest.

River otters prefer quiet meals
so to spot our local pair,
I needed to walk the forest
with the moon as a guide.

It is hard to descrive
the aloneness of dark words —
air crisp,
birds still,
the only sound echoing
as I walk
are my own booted footsteps.

Years in the city and suburbs
have dulled my senses
in the wild.

As the granddaughter of naturalists,
I tromped through
bog and wood
with abandon as a child.

These days
I am regaining my senses
with each walk in nature,
especially alone
in the dark.

Otters greet me as I leave the woods
for the marsh’s broad expanse.
My sould airs out,
my heart soars,
my lungs fill
as I give thanks
for the company,
thanks for the darkness.

Part way through a poetry anthology,
I congratulate myself silently
for the connections I have made,
the revelations unfolding,
the new poems minted from inspiration,
wet ink in my journal.

But today,
I stopped short —
the poem unintelligible.
Perhaps the simple title, “The Word”
fed my inflated confidence.
I forged ahead,
looking for inspiration
but each line
left me deeper and deeper
in the woods.

Reaching the end,
I sat back, confounded.
Where is my easy access?
My quick connection?
My flowing pen?

In the end, I let my confusion
lead the way,
a bit humbled,
but willing.

Poetry is
a taut form of communication,
an economy of words
that open doors,
just not always
the doors we imagine.

When the friendship was new,
we marveled at our luck.
Clearly,
the universe had a plan.
Every conversation charged,
revelatory,
original.

We knew we would
pass the years together —
late night dinners would turn
into walks with children,
trips abroad.

Our youthful exuberance
confident in parallel lives ahead,
unaware of the power
of time
distance
loss
ennui.

I think of your smiling face often.
Life did not give us
the paired path —
houses next door,
dogs from the same litter.

I wonder how you are —
I think about the children you raised,
the marriage that ended,
your joys, losses, victories.

As I age,
I realize you remain
a great joy I carry.
Weren’t we lucky?
To have such magic
for a time?

I must remember to put
each glorious gift of friendship
in my pocket
to savor
in those moments I am alone,
when I really need a friend.

Flown off course,
the plump pearly white goose,
has become something
of a celebrity.
Daily Ebird alerts ring out
to birders across the region.

The Ross’s Goose,
who breeds on the Arctic tundra,
usually migrates
from Victoria Island
and the Northwest territories,
down past Saskatchewan
through the Rocky Mountains
to the marshes and lakes
of the American West.

Except,
here swims one lone Ross’s Goose
across the river from the Nation’s Capital
among a flock
of larger Canadian Geese.
Smaller by half,
the Ross’s Goose
stands stark white
against a sea
of brown and black feathered Canadiens.

Little does the bird know
its choice to eschew
the beaten path
is teaching us humans
it is just fine
to go our own way.

The lunchroom is hectic today.
A deep freeze overnight
makes the head table
a hot spot.

First to arrive are
the house sparrows,
a chatty bunch
with little use for others.
They swarm the table,
searching for the best bites.

Next to arrive in the
long lunch line
are the mourning doves,
in no hurry,
the doves often
sit for extended periods
contemplating the choice,
much to the chagrin
of noisy Blue Jays
at the back of the line.

Blue Jays
can be the bullies
of the bunch,
pushing, pecking,
squawking to get their way.
How amusing
to watch the unbothered doves,
who eventually move to the side
puffing, ruffling feathers
as they settle at a table
in the corner
to watch the commotion.

Almost unnoticed
a tiny, auburn-tinted Carolina wren
darts in for a bite,
back out before
other lunch patrons
have time to complain.

Bringing up the rear,
a majestic cardinal
draws all eyes.

Crimson against the feeder,
the cardinal knows
he is class president and
quarterback rolled into one.
The crowd parts
as he sits alone at the table
reveling in his uniqueness,
certain the lunchroom
belongs only to him.

“Attention teachers and staff,
the army is short a few —
illness, family commitment,
exhaustion have taken a toll.
Please consider
where you can help,
perhaps take a few students
into your raft
as we weather
this storm of a day.
Remember,
the 1,000+ students
will not be mindful
of your extra burden.
In fact,
the needs are greatest
when the resources
are strained.
Good luck today…
you will need it.

Sitting at the kitchen table
in a yellow wallpapered kitchen,
my father reads The Washington Post
cover to cover.

My mother,
floral apron donned,
delivers half a grapefruit,
ruby red, sections cut
for easy scooping.

A refilled coffee cup
followed by soft-boiled eggs
round out the meal
as my suited father rises
to head for work.

Hundreds of mornings
spent in the yellow kitchen
repeating the well-worn ritual.

Looking back,
I wonder if my mother
chose
to begin her days in service
or
if society required acquiescence?