In June, June 2022
In June, the windows are open at night,
Letting in the cooler air
Which sweeps away the humidity of day
Heavy with sweat and effort.
The insects hum, a soft drone,
A backing track to sweet slumber,
Until the birds awaken en masse,
Before the first rays of light
Break over the horizon,
Their chirps and caws and coos
Calling to me, and to the Sun,
Like a mother gently waking her child,
"It's time! Day has begun!"
I Once Saw a Hen Mourn, July 2021
The two white-feathered chickens,
The only ones in the mixed-breed flock,
Spent their days together,
Separate from the others,
Somehow aware they were different,
Finding solidarity in their similarity.
One day, one of the white hens
Suddenly died of old age,
A heart attack, presumably.
That evening, the remaining white hen,
Entering the coop alone,
Paused at the door,
And let out a plaintive squawk,
In a single moment expressing
All the feelings surrounding death:
Love,
Sadness,
Release,
Resolve.
The next morning,
The white hen joined the others,
As much a part of the flock
As if she had always been.
The Old Farmer, July 2021
The spry, seventy-six year old farmer
Swung his leg over the tractor seat
Like he was still twenty.
As I picked nettles, he talked
Of the historic cemetery on his property,
Of his solar power system,
Of ticks and Powassan.
His knowledge is deep and ever-expanding,
Like the roots of the plants he grows,
His brilliance buried by social expectations,
Belied by a modest disposition
And plain work clothes.
Rising, but not setting, with the sun,
His strength and stamina outlast
That of many men much younger.
His zest for life reveals a man-
Who would never say-
He is in love, with his land.
The Coming of Rain, June 2021
The dropping temperature,
And the strong breeze,
Confirmed the weather forecast:
Rain was coming.
The dark, gray clouds rolled in
Followed by thunder in the distance.
The bumblebees became frantic,
Flitting from flower to flower,
Faster and faster,
Among the foxglove,
Determined to gather more pollen
Before the rain forced them home.
I heard the rain before I felt it,
The brief rustle of a leaf
That could have been an immature peach
Softly falling from the tree
Under which I was raking.
The first drop landed on my cheek,
Gently,
Like a tender kiss.
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