Tag Archives: wildlife

plucking apart

baigz and i in matching safety orange hard hats
because the chain wrapped around the thick chunks of tree trunks
could pop a link
under all the duress
as the tractor drags 
the incredible weight of them

creatures so big in the highway
trish says turkeys guessing outloud as we approach
though it turns out
they are a bald eagle
and its juveniles
plucking apart
the muscle and sinew
of a roadkill raccoon
and as we approach
they take off yet
land in the corn stubble nearby
and we are all surprised
by the sheer heft and size
which, from this unusual proximity,
we get to take in

angela running around the field
in her mint green unicorn onesie
which is a bit baggy in the crotch and legs – making each run for the disc
a comical one
that’s some martha stewart shit i say
of the good-lookingness of the two cakes (pineapple upside down and pear upside down – with pecans)
cooling on the butcher block and
kitchen table


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the sunset something

sans gloves, i
pull the sleeve layers long
over my hands
the vertebrae, the thin ribs
of gibbous, the incredible shrinking cat
defined and almost sharp under my palms
as i scoop him up
the ice in the tire track pressed into the dirt road
that i crack with my tennis-shoe’d toe
and the ice in the intermittent stream
whose shades and shapes form
around the big rocks scattered
the bald eagle gliding close enough (thirty feet?)
that i don’t have to squint to make out
if that is indeed a white head and white tail i see – 
it is, indeed, without a doubt
i reserve the question mark
for the other two or three along the way
that could have been red tailed hawks
or juvenile bald eagles
up on slater’s hill and along
county line road

the possum
looking at me looking at it
in daylight
scampering slow off into 
the woods
and me, redirecting jack the jack russell’s attention
to keep
the peace
the kitchen clock
once again silenced:
pulled off the wall from above the sink,
battery adjusted so no contact
is made

the sunset something peach
(sorbet, perhaps)
along horizon

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in the otherwise

awake with the first lines of color/light
streaking sky
6:20something a.m. and what i presume to be last night’s fox
barking its metallic rusty bark
in the otherwise silence of 
a cool morning
saved one for each of us emory says 
of his homemade doughnuts
in the big round wooden serving bowl
whose sugar cinnamon crumbs
i press my doughnut into
while emory dips his
in the million dollar tea
before each bite
with doughnut sugar on our hands
we take turns asking for nouns and adjectives and adverbs and silly words and celebrity names and places
scratching the answers into the mad libs blanks
with a just-sharpened pencil – 
turns out boot is generally a good and entertaining noun to use often
and drunk a similarly good and entertaining verb
the barn emory says, stressing the the,
distinguishing it from a barn which is the first
falling apart building (besides the silo)
we come across
all at the edge of the valleyish prairie
edged in by forest on all sides
the creak of the door hinges
that comes with every small breeze
that moves through what emory guesses what once was a storage shed
which still sports a mysterious 
small stall / mud room
at the entrance
forgotten i say about this round haybale em and i perch atop along with jack
and by forgotten i mean rolled off to the side, out of the pasture, off the path
in a place where it looks like it has been sitting a while
and later i think about how full my haybale-sitting-atop-of quota is
for the past four years and it is
one of the everyday magics
about this life out here:
world as seen from atop a haybale so big
that you must fling yourself against it to climb
or find a way to rig a plank to walk up to it

how i can wrap nearly one hand
around gibbous (the gold orange cat)’s abdomen
and feel all the ribs and vetebrae

the bizz buzz of a wasp
whose back tip is caught in spiderwebbing above my desk
as it wriggles and twists and otherwise frantically moves
attempting and attempting
55 degrees
at 10pm
on december third,
tomorrow’s high in the mid 60s
need i
say more
🌠🌠🌠 every shooting star you ever see will be laden with me
i write thinking about the phenomenon
of how we are woven/written into 

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yes, december

december and we’re
running around in shorts on a 50-something-degree day
across the field whose grass is still green
yes, december
liveable she says
of the six room floor of the building

that people have been living in for twenty years now
funny how the mississippi runs right through manhattan she writes
and i am so grateful
for all of our shared languages
including the carrying on of metaphors
that can be drawn out long
over time
and across great distances

is there even a sunset in New York City?
i ask, following up with here it’s gold foil and strawberry ice cream
it is a long and old habit – seeing fruit in the skycolors
the bright wafer of moon
coming up against talcum pinks and blues
that hold the space
until dark is ready to enter

if it were a metal, it would be rusted
is one way i would describe the fox bark
which trish and i hear
while we round the gravel corner on foot under a full moon
wher we stop to listen
and talk about the finer points of coming out
of a dark forest
which is not exactly how i would name it for myself – i might say something about crawling out of the wreckage
of a broken machine – a machine that we made and had such pride and hope for

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maybe the mistyness

thwapping in the wind
high above on electric pole
(one with a mini transformer or something on it at the top – cylandrical)
the broken down body
of what i thought was a squirrel
but it’s not even body it’s just skeletal clump with fur/wing attached linked to skeletal clump with fur/wing attached
thinking it must be bird,
its skull thwaping against the wood pole in the breeze
which is the sound that caused me
to look up
how i tell myself to stop
and take in the shimmer
coming off the pond in the pasture by the train bridge
so i do
breathe deep and take in the dazzle
the telltale skin and head to one side of the road in the ditch of a small unmoving stream
and ribcage to the other
a deer was hunted here
it is a country? song
called female 
by keith urban or something like that
how it brings tears to my eyes
because it is the first song i’ve heard presumably written and sung by a man
on mainstream radio
simply saying something along the lines of: 
women – respect the shit out of them they are life and they are sacred 
and maybe the mistyness is because of this first-timeness
and/or maybe the mistyness is his timing 
the victory of finishing
the third ever willow woven basket i’ve ever made
and the first i’ve ever made myself (with the help of some major phone consulting)
sans handle
something about its shape
like a cone one holds up to their ear
or something satellite-dish about it
tilted to take in
sound and wind

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scribbling the nuances

though it is difficult to tell,
a thing that sounds like a fox bark
not far past the mushroom yard
this (and the thin orange line of light) are how the day begins unfolding
willow basketweaving 101
as taught from the distance between a pacific northwest forest
and a northeast missouri sunpatch
i sit on the ground under the clothseline scribbing furiously
the nuances
from a train hurtling west and north
she names the sunset spindleberry
while i, from the rise-fall of northeast missouri gravel hills
call it faded 1983 teal tshirt
never seen it like that before
both cynthia and i say about the moon
as we walk the rise of the rolling ridge
and the sunset spills all its color (from copper to purple-bruised pink) everywhere
and up there, under the thinnest veil, a moon about halfway full glowing a cool blue

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not yet dusking

the way the wind that blows the whispy but long plants
back and forth on the fabius sand flat
the stems and leaves scraping sand
as the wind tosses them
resulting in concentric semi-circle patterns
and how, when we look around, we find a whole gallery of it – plant art
by the slow-moving animals

the bundles of willow
whose permission we asked
gathered in our arms and then laid
in the backseat
future baskets one of us says

jack the jack russel’s shadow
(particularly his ears) bouncing up down
between our two human shadows
on the white rock road
as we walk
while the sun
still sends its light 

how the sunglow is held
in fillaments of the milkweed fluff –
airborn (some lifting up and off,
some drifting horizontally,
some already heading back
to the ground)
like squid or spiders she says
about their movement/suspendedness

not long after we arrive at the train bridge,
the quick and short train appears
first, whistling in the distance,
then, hurtling under the bridge under our feet
and then gone on around the bend 
the bat doing its bat flight pattern thing
while we walk up underpass
the sky not yet dusking
but soon

hot pink lemonade
with grape
 i say
about the sunset colors
striated in sky

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