Kestrel on the line, kestrel lifeless on the hard rock highway, kestrel in the sky, Canada goose in a still pond, no leaves only reddish buds, crumbly.
Swollen streams and rivers, skeins of goose bodies dotting leaden greys,
sole redwinged black bird clings every tiny tree top, spring singing.
Or croaking "ckerr-ank".
Nuthatches creeping, tufted mouse tits in the hemlocks, jayblues swoop and jump, chickadees...
New trailing arbutus leaves but no buds. Picking 2 fields edged with strong pine scarfs, wrapping and clutching -- what is the pine hold? Is it because the first visions came then and it was a time of hope ("Lordy mercy if there comes a time...")
My brave forsythia looks so promising; Two bird nests in the neighbor's ancient forsythia hedge.
Gravel snow and river.
Snow on the high Forest hills, "Caution: water not drinkable" signs posted at Slocum springs, Sawmill burger sign spins, at the Harley shop in the forest: "Support the troops, end the war" ("Sally go round the roses, the roses , they can't hurt you")
The Desire for wood
Why doesn't Obama or Hillary talk about class unequalities instead of focusing on the colour of our skins? Mike Moore sure talks about the income gap but does not call it class; I'm not sure about Nader although he does talk about eco inequality.
Computerized weather voice for part of an hour, coffee-trucks: truck-coffees.
Fluff of a dead skunk across from the Catholic church on the hill, parishioner steps into the road for the Good Friday service and steps back out of the way of the incoming car, (squeal of the stove door heralds warmth of wood, the firery furnace ), writer strings together spring, resurrection and vampires' undead-ness, and 2 shows deal with techincal descriptions of death by crucifixtion -- what 's the fixation? I like my hotsauce closet very much flaming endorphines of the state, of the zone, on the sidewalk in the rain a wide wide bandaid wet but never wide enough to cover all the valleys and wooded hills, with snow, ice and discovery.
Yet another copper thief starts a fire, it's cold, then it's warm, who's got the cat?
Late talk with the northern man out of his watershed, strung out on sere edges, the barren, the stark, slashing, and burning up with art, whirly-gigging a werld dance, poring over words on a page in the long quiet.