Sap is running fast,
fast through the maple
tree’s muscle, a humming
rhythm of brisk sunlight.
The geese are shouting out, back
from the waters that never
freeze, shouting out to each
other as they swing overhead.
Sandhill cranes fly
by like a mis-engineered
experiment, warbling
incessantly, landing like
accidents, and
two swans stretch, settle
quietly in the shallows, perhaps
sensing the final blizzard that will
hollow out this windy day.
orphan poems 