a consequence of the season
written with a fountain pen
sitting exhausted in the sun and
enjoying the pleasures of
melting snow:
the yelling of crows
yelling three or four times
of their comings and goings
and vultures soaring
just above tree-tops
who silently join the chorus
and who remembers writing
with a fountain pen and
from where did the
words flow from
of wringer washer
and bringing in
the first laundry
of the season of
dry and warm
not frozen
in order
not rushed
shirts flat over trousers
and socks now in pairs
and to the stories
in mends and in darns
with paint punctuation
and who remembers
making fires to stay warm
standing there drying
your hair by the stove
then in cast-iron
cooking a meal
while thanking the trees
in their native tongue
the snow melting quickly
going up with the wind
the dripping reminders
of maple syrup and
gutters to mend and
sculpting the run-off
planes in the lane
and sculpting
fluid dynamics towards
the laminar flow
of a boat in the water
sometime again
as the treetops begin
to collide in a clatter
tracing patterns of wind
dry leaves tumble
from surface to air
in melt-time
with the yelling of crows
on in-blowing grey and
on and off rain
to walk in the forest
in a blue and white sky
the beech leaves still clinging
translucent from golden
wind chimes in a chorus
as trees begin creaking
and
where have all the
wild turkeys come from
long hard winter
if you've noticed
some thing's wrong
long time gone
reduced in the edit
with mouse on the sketch-book
to digitally dull
with rings in our noses
protected from elements
ignoring the singing
of our mother
nature
