Rippling Liquid Mirrors

November's last day,
Then December--Winter's month;
Sun breaks on the lawn.

Sun rises swiftly
Lighting me up in mirror--
Dappled reflection.

Puddles in barnyard;
Gentle wind blows up the road;
Rooster crows in sun.

White froth in the stream;
Still, in the rushing water,
Serenely stable.

Sharp shadow surface
Lies across fences and trees--
Flattening darkness.

Green pine and brown leaves
Nestled in each other's arms.
Cardinal in the bushes.

I love mud puddles:
Rippling liquid mirrors
That reflect the sky.

Pain across my leg;
Slender barbed stem bounces back,
Warns me of trespass.

In Their Disjunction

A bright cold morning;
The sun is taking its time;
Cat crosses the lawn.

With every second
The sunlight becomes brighter;
Stripes appear on lawn.

With roar and rattle
Peter's pick up truck wakes up
Winks one good rear light.

The broken fence posts--
Last winter's snow recorded
In their disjunction.

I talk to myself
But receive no new insights--
Persistent babble.

Among the dead leaves
Bright green in the morning sun:
Fern and glowing moss.

Closest to the sun
Treetops are painted by the light;
A brilliant starkness.


Pet Watch car passes--
My Stella's not in their care.
Just where has she gone?

Even the Bull Laughs

Squirrel in the dead leaves
Searches with frantic purpose;
Digs for God knows what.

Only one dead leaf
On top of rhododendron;
Comes from some place else.

This balmy Sunday
At the end of November;
Even the bull laughs.

Smell of fresh baking
Drifts slowly across the road;
Kisses my nostrils.

Popping of rifles
Breaking through the soft warm air
Like armed intruders.

Suspended from gate
Faded ornaments hang on.
They know no season.

Incessant shooting;
Big old boys with louder guns.
Some things never change.



Windows in window,
Facing in and facing out;
With no one inside.

Does It Think It's Spring?

It's below freezing;
There's a white sheen on the lawn.
No sandals today.

Bare forsythia
Stands behind the green pine tree;
Few yellow leaves hang.

Does it think it's Spring:
Swelling rhododendron bulb
Aiming at the sky?

Dull patches glisten,
Lying at the side of road,
Mud puddles no more.

In a silent race
Young deer floats across the road.
Was it ever there?

Slowly, stripes of sun
Touch the ground of the jailed woods;
Then swiftly move on.

Without a whisper
The screw in my glasses fled-=-
Mechanical joke.

No gloves--no option;
Dead brown leaves fill the stream bed
That flowed by the road.

The School Bus Has Gone

Blue light breaks slowly,
Then it's here as if always.
(Was it always so?)

Light grows in the trees;
I see it through the stark limbs
Ever growing brighter.

Skeleton tree limbs
Bend over the sunlit road.
The school bus has gone.

Morning of shadows;
Moon high n the cold blue sky;
Bright sun sheds no warmth.

Hidden from the sun:
Somber patches of dark woods;
No warmth and no light.

Naked and revealed,
The slender tree is twisted;
Will be forever

They are living ghosts:
Seed puffs among red berries.
Loud crack from the woods.

Focused Nonchalance

Staring me in the face,
Squirrel on branch outside window
Wobbles uncertainly.

A few scattered leaves
Dot the green on my front lawn--
Just the hint of Fall.

Dark against the sky
Hawk glides smoothly through the air--
Focused nonchalance.

Sharpness in the wind
On this blue gray dark morning,
Trees are silhouettes.

Two girls come running
Down the path to the bus stop;
Morning adventure.

School bus then silence;
Always a quiet return;
Wood smoke makes no noise.

Two friends chat walking;
Their words float up the mountain,
Sliding past the trees.

How many trees passed;
How many leaves overlooked,
In my reverie?

Just Bidiing Their Time

Gray sky threatens rain;
Sun has fled into the clouds;
No shadows at all.

The trees are stock still;
The earth is holding its breath.
What a time to walk!

Pile of pine needles,
Turning brown before winter.
Moisture all around.

Cow moos, rooster crows,
Plane rumbling in the clouds;
School bus passes by.

How many behinds
Have filled this ancient chair
Now set out for trash?

Sprinkled in the trees
A few leaves are hanging on--
Just biding their time.

Whiff of tobacco
As the sports care whooshes by;
Then pungent Fall returns.

Sixty-two per cent:
The forecasted chance of rain.
(I walk the one third).