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Scant animals with their glassy hoped-for eyes
draw near to my crumbling step.
I think they want to sing me something,
carol a Mozart aria perhaps,
but they cannot
so they lift furry eyebrows
shuffle as if to say, ‘we can’t,
but listen to the wind
in the cavities of our bones,
it whistles both merry tunes and dirges,
it echo’s the past and the present
but all our four paws are here in the moment'.

A jowly mouse
with the face of a New Jersey cop
edges closer than most.

“We are not trying to warn you” it says,
expressing its lack of words
in the brisk modality of pigeon-toed dance steps.
“We are not begging for food or love”
It is Spring now and we are out here
happy to have come through.
We are a deputation, a clique, and a clack
calling you out into the bare hedgerows.
There are new threads and tubes
driving upward from the twiggy earth ---

--- you’re acting like a dead man
and so we gather here
to awaken those other little animals
that nest in your fat and fiber.
Lead them out soon or they will eat you
and you will have deserved it -
that is all.”

I nodded respectfully
at the red whiskered rodent.

Leaving the door open a crack
I went to the kitchen
to chop the head off a dead chicken.
It was time to eat and not be eaten.
Spring is whisking its mush.
A dry wine has aged fizzy and fine,
it is already shaking it’s splashy bubbles
ready for the sipping summer suns
to come.

The light outside these walls is porous,
thus I will go
I will go to the hedgerow,
hang a winter scarecrow by its ankles
until it coughs up, a new free range
Spring poem worth the eating
one with garlicy kisses, a round Romaine lettuce,
with a lightly garnished piquant dressing.

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