Getting Wet

Wrens
I don't think
dream hard enough
and are afraid
of a zero sum game
while Robins
get wet
and know raindrops
are words
and they've learned
how to read the
rain.

Whittling

My how the sparks fly

as the flinty wheel keeps turning

as the waxy fuse keeps burning

like the cherub child

I’m learning

to be ground down

burned to the ground

sharpening the saw

but dulling the sounds

of a million little cuts.

Tyrannidae

I remember white paper birch

bullheads and miniature perch

off the end of a dock

on Long Lake.

That white headed eagle soaring

soaring

soaring

beyond the furthest red and white bobber

plucking a keeper

before my astonished eyes.

I remember his white puffy hat,

like an Amanitas-

a chef in the wilderness,

out of place, an unheeded

warning.

Plastic one gallon ice cream buckets

filling with clams

symmetrical mollusks

felt with toes

and dug from the mud.

I remember him calling-

stepping out of the water

my silty wrinkled toes

the dark cavity in the rooty tree

and white-faced hornets stinging.

I remember the Chef,

the Destroying Angel,

his flycatcher recipe-

he’s a preacher now

preaching

preaching

still serving barbs and scree.