Twofer

I belong to an organization

made up of two factions

one literary [where I am]

& one technical, a brick

or possibly it is concrete

wall divides them

someone

drills a hole, inside it I see

bearded parts of a male face

I hear what the hell? 

literary females chuckle

I cut a window-size square

around the hole

I see

wires, devices, linoleum

the man blunders through

straddles a wooden chair

to lecture us, we don’t

listen, I suggest a private

conversation

he makes

room for me in the chair

we entangle, his bristles

galvanize my face, not here

I say, he persists, I cooperate

the organization flinches

Night & Day

the midnight smell is skunk

outside my open window

not unusual, seldom seen

except at first light

the smell gradually fades

as the skunk ambles off

this morning the smell

is smeared across the road

I’m out to take a look

head & fur appear intact

more scattered innards

surround the smashed tail

than seem would fit inside

I fetch the old snow shovel

push the body parts

from center line to weeds

& down the wooded slope

blood is no surprise

the gore makes me retch

the bare damp space

doesn’t say enough about

the truth — a slow crossing

a fast car — my fix

is simple, let’s outlaw cars

make us walk as if we

were wild animals too

postscript

four hours later

turkey vultures came

Alfresco

middle of the forest trail

a hawk peers at something

I can’t see, so engrossed

the hawk fails to see me

it lifts its prey in its talon grip

to the top of a tall stump

pitted by pileateds, morsel

by morsel the hawk feeds

I creep closer & closer

to see this hawk, a cooper’s

tawny breast, curved beak

so engrossed, me below

& now too close, the hawk

rises, turns, & flies away

great wings, barred tail

bloodied talons bare

Lost

flustered, he stops & stands

& stares through thin woods

to green lawn, residential buildings

I must have made a u-turn somewhere

he has a hard time believing

he’s lost, in his own woods

woods he’s owned for decades

that’s a good thing, I say

he won’t answer, won’t admit

that to own is not to understand

to own is often to misunderstand

when I too see the green lawn

I know I’m looking south

I’m ten steps from his property line

yet he’s lost, not because 

he doesn’t know where he is

but because he’s not where

he thought he would be

it’s a good thing to be lost

to need to scan the ground

for a traveled path, scan the trees

for a trail blaze, scan the sky

for sun or moon or stars

when I’m lost I think about

Walter Benjamin, how somewhere

between France & Spain, between

life & death, he chooses to die

which is worse? to live or die

to be lost or found, I prefer

to live & be lost, to proceed

along an unknown route, I know

whatever happens will

Feather Pendant

a wild turkey’s beard

hangs from a scrawny neck

flutters & sways, its beak

feeds on seeding grass

both eyes scan the surround

alert to any motion, aka me

I watch from the mudroom

one turkey, two turkeys

such large birds, yet so timid

so hesitant, so ungainly

though turkeys can fly

each night great wings

lift bulbous bodies to roost

like vultures, or raccoons

Turkey Tending

a small head on a long curved neck

kuk kuk kuks through tall grasses

I watch, utterly still, for the brown bobs

of ten poults foraging around her

they rock forward & back, investigate

every sunlit blade, lunge at ants

& centipedes & dragonflies

if I make a sound or turn my head

mother hen hustles, duly warned

her poults whirr up, flutter down

pitch & yaw around her bulk like boats

breasting a choppy sea, cluster close

then skitter off like wind-blown foam

to browse another field of green