Springsound
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I am, somewhat surprisingly (to me, anyway) beginning a series of poetry-written-when-I-hear-the-geese-throughout-my-day.
For Eva Vrdoljak...
A flood of grackles,
black-leafing the tree
who seem to’ve forgot
that its not
Winter;
it’s Spring and everything
is about to flower.
Eva says they are starling
and they may be.
She says they crowd the uncrowded
barebranch trees and blot out
the sun and blot out the Spring’s sounds.
The nattering and chirp-chattering
is a great April chorus for us,
down here...in the frostbit grass.
The ear is rung like a town bell
as thoughts are misshapen and lost.
A woodpecker, somewhere
is into his or her daily
mind-numbing rat-a-tat-chattering;
Unburying dreams, dreams in the heartwood.
It’s the 16th day in a row.
Or seventh.
Or 38th.
(It was once that I could count.)
A neighbor’s rooster breaks the night,
breaks the dawn,
breaks the morning
wide open.
An earful all day (break)
The horses whinny in
their morning mare-compare-mare-ing
then find their way to their place
in their paddocks.
The air is abound with sound.
Three geese,
circle over.
From dawn’s waxen East
feathering past a flaxen South
gaggling to the black sun West
they klaxon forth to nourishing North.
and there is no hearing, now...
not even
a single starling
(If ever there were such a thing.)
Not now, not even -
a single peck of wood.
Not now, not -
a single cockle is doodled or done.
Not a single mare is heard from her herd.
and there is no hearing, now...
not even
a single grackle
(If ever there were such a thing.)
Copyright © Stephe Watson | Year Posted 2018
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