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.)
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