We are woken by thunderclaps
into a season of wind and rain.
Our thoughts are blown eastward
where they will be spoken one hour earlier.
Tomato plants bend and shake
within their cylindrical cages
That are open to the empty sky.
And so we turn over the days like compost
Amid rumors of a dramatic increase
in the volume and intensity of loneliness.
These days are marked by strangled cries
of stray cats cruising the cusp of night.
Frequent scatterings of little birds,
snow buntings or horned larks, and
hawks at sporadic intervals on posts,
also northern harriers, or hen harriers
you might say, over the snowy fields.
Some people believe seeing a harrier
perched on a house is a sign that
three people will die; on a happier note,
some Native American tribes believe
seeing a hawk on your wedding day
is a sign of a long, happy marriage.
I cannot say, Birdie, why they make me
think of you, something about your
face or is it just the way love drifts
on winter winds with white wings
like it is made out of loneliness,
feathered with the self-same snow
it flies above, and I cannot tell
from day to day if I am the car
speeding down the icy road
or the field mouse just beyond
the grasp of your talons, but I hope
for the latter, that I can feed you
with my four limbs and pounding heart.