Stretched out under the snow
a dead seagull, wings spread.
I must have seen a dead seagull before,
but if I did it was not a snow burial,
not in Kentucky, not in my backyard.
By late afternoon
a weak sun had thawed the carcass,
as I eased a shovel under it,
a sharp wind lifted one stiff wing
as if to fly.
Land locked from any shore.
I dearly wished that both of us
could see the ocean from here.
Drought 8.30.15
Their sighs were barely audible
as the trees began to absorb each drop.
With palpable relief
the red bud, river birch, alder, dogwood,
pine and fir trees stopped shedding
and began to perk up.
The longed-for showers had arrived,
the first appreciable rain since March.
March! It's now almost September.
Weather maps were consulted
more frequently than usual.
Radar was checked.
In the middle of the night
a soothing drip-drip-drip punctuated our sighs.
Some places, far away, are dry.
We know that.
Low humidity
high temperatures
moisture almost non-existent.
That's the desert.
Not here.
Not in my backyard.
Several dry months in summer
perhaps
but never persistent drought.
Until now.
It's here
in my backyard
Thirst in my backyard.
Grass has lost all
tinge of green.
Leaves and needles galore are nature's litter.
Forests are dry.
Wild fires abound.
Lakes and rivers have little water.
Watching foliage shrivel
is not an option.
Not yet.
We can do little but
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
Shrug and water
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