Antics

Tumbles of fur and warping tails,

squirrel are learning the curves

of frolic and play—essential qualities

for squirrels this time of year.

Dapples snow covers the landscape

revealing the old grass, pine needles,

broken twigs from season's passing.

Making the attempts at frozen suet,

they find an easier bounty on the ground,

sunflower seed trapped in divots,

hidden in collapsed mole tunnels. No need

for acrobatics here, no need to challenge

feeder baffles. Our cat sits chirping at the window.

They're back at it again, scrambling in the

slivers of afternoon sun. More join in the fray

now, but keep busy with the treasure hunt.

Chickadees keep watch, five and six now.

Plenty to go around.

1/17

Hudson's Highway

The Taconic is a dragon coaster:

unsafe, old, and terrible fun. White

knuckles coming back from college,

testing engines on the endless incline

approaching Putnam Valley, claustrophobic

between retaining walls and blasted

mountainside. Always apt to spot deer,

often in herds, or redtails perched on branch overhangs

or vultures riding on thermals overhead

through fifty-five miles per hour

on the slowest

days.

There were flying pizzas launched through

moon roofs over the Croton Reservoir, coming

back from Pleasantville. Petrified silence over

the unprepared, headed down to White Plains.

Third-degree burns in a rush to the hospital,

and the last of the great bonfires.

Rules of engagement.

I know this highway. I know Underhill Avenue and

Pudding Street. I know Lime Kiln Road. There is no

flooding here, not like the Saw Mill. No four-lane expanses

of big brother Sprain. Seductive, dangerous, secrets

unfolds to rural landscapes before Albany destinations.

1/11/10

Silhouettes

Pillars and towers behind the sepia curtains

enough light to cast shadows from the outside.

Separation between existence and possible,

the here—the beyond. There are chairs for two.

What if I were to sit alone?

Shapely wood, carved support strands. Only the backs

and arms are visible. Seating descends into blackness,

disappears below the beyond, below the here.

Sitting seems a giving in, to ignore the possible and

agree with existence. There is a reason why I stand

despite the allure of the stainless steel decanter,

the find china cups too small to hold or affirm.

The table they rest upon is also small, the support

base cowering into the black agreements.

It is all reflective: decanter,

warmth of chair arms,

gloss of round table top.

No possibility.

Beyond curtains. Sepia to dayglow.

1/7/10

Blue Moon

Too cold for tingling hands

wired against metal mechanics,

glow disperses into the new decade.

Too cold for breath, for life,

almost even for the ruffled lake

as she harbors her icy transitions.

Luna was out of focus for any memory,

clouded by fogged lense and champagne delirium.

Cocktail shrimp, bundled hors d' oeuvres

at the end of the aughts. Unfamiliar celebrity

displaces smoke garages crackling decibels

friends from lifetimes ago.

Too cold for the blue moon tonight.

1/04/10