Inventory

startled today:

one large green and tan frog

with dark slit golden eyes;

one 'hairy' woodpecker,

an unflattering name for his

red-capped, black-and-white feathered finery;

one yellow-and-black-striped ground bee perusing one of many

triangular gaps in the outward tilted stonewall;

one unseen snake ripping fast

through dry grass underlying new green blades;

one parental tree swallow, again disturbed daily

and glaring from the glass-free garage window;

multitudinous miniature spiderlings,

round, reddish brown, dozing in dead pansy blooms,

whipped frantic by my prying, green-thumbed hands;

one bustling ant community

busily farming aphids on the alders

near the pond policed by speeding dragonflies

who are, in turn, startled too late to save themselves

from hungry leaping fish . . .

by that standard, I am a harmless intrusion

in my natural neighborhood.

Haiku Hourly

My personal challenge today is to write a haiku hourly!



6 a.m.

Between mosquitoes

and evening breezes, I walk -

a robin studies me.



7 a.m.

Speaking softly

to calm a tiny chipmunk -

I startle the heron.



8 a.m.

Seeking freedom

the wasp batters the sky, trapped

under the skylight.



9 a.m.

Purging the past

ready to dump the clutter

I glare at the locked gate.



10 a.m.

Picnicking early,

peeking through the flap of a trash can,

puppet-like squirrel.



11 a.m.

Woodpeckers tapping,

two head-to-head, unconcerned;

their tree is now a fence.



12 p.m.

Silhouette on a post;

even with glasses I squint -

yes! a bluebird!



1 p.m.

We gape open-mouthed

8 a.m. in the parking lot;

sparrow mimes, "It's hot."



2 p.m.

Enjoying warm sun:

then angry, biting, climbing . . .

I weeded their nest.



3 p.m.

I float a pine branch

offering on our artificial pond -

will the frogs return?



4 p.m.

Hourly I watch

windblown leaves, wandering wildlife, changing sky -

poems are hard work!



5 p.m.

The calendar says

summer vacation but I

still hear students' voices.



6 p.m.

Stalking the last verse

the pond and yard are empty:

time has run out.

The Box

He has learned to lift the lid

and creep into the feeder.



It is filled with sunflower,

millet seed, peanut, and cracked corn.



He pauses, gazes through the scratch-fogged plastic,

grazes until his face is fat.



Upward again, mouth full, he chews, dangles

awkwardly (it looks painful) over the sharp cut edge.



back in

up and over

back and

over

down and

up



Wishing the gift,

unwilling to trade freedom.

Stubborn Child

cackling warnings

goose and gander swim circles

gosling stares from shore

the harder the rain, the louder the frogs

here and there a frog chirps



high and dry on a wire

electric red bird

singing in the rain



how loud the frogs!



clinging to the feeder

skinny red squirrel

matted and soaked to the skin

Future Unknown

hatchling noisy at the feeder

cloak a patternless neutral fluff

identity concealed for now

Spring into Summer

Trillers and peepers

sparkle twilight

with starlight

songs

until fireflies

rise

twinkling

midsummer

nightlights.

the deep purple iris

tall

alone

against

the white mortared

orange-red brick wall

framed

by greens

dark and light

sun and shadow

by fine grass threads

and tiny fluttering leaves

I do want to

cut

it

and 

carry it home

but 

would I be stealing

the indigo-violet

of the rainbow

only to find

it pale

with

out

its

companion

colors?