This December’s bird count
includes individuals mislaid
or forgotten by fall’s migration.
One rears a late hatch
a second clings to a mate
of another species, a third
sings so long it misreads
leaf-fall for the rite of spring.
These poor few will quake
& slump & die over winter.
They will make up no part of
spring’s count. No one
save a stray god will mark
their loss, bless their bones.
We walk a slow three miles along a forest trail
pawed by game, rutted by melt & frequent rain.
Thousands of wildflowers spring from leaf-fall —
trout lily, trillium, bloodroot, dutchman’s breeches
noble hepatica, blue cohosh, early meadow rue.
Only near the end do I start to stumble, my eight-
decade-old feet beginning to flag, the rest of me
wanting to be stronger, to walk & witness longer
but also to be sitting back in the car. My brother
stumbles all the distance but pays age no mind.
My grandchildren, white sneakers caked with mud
thumbs now & again on phones, all but prance.
we lie scattered
like the contents of an upturned purse
his motorcycle stalled & steaming
the driver reaches
hot hands to noonday sun
I stumble to my feet
one child clutched in my arms
the other child in a bush across the road
as we were falling I thought
this is death, & it’s okay
because we’re all so happy to be alive
shakily, we reassemble
incomprehensibly, no one’s hurt
the driver rights his toppled ride
one foot peg is skewed
the gas tank bears a fresh indent
rainbows marble
the spray of gravel that spilled us
a rustling from the brush
yields three women sheathed
crown to sole in dusty black
squealing, crooning
syllables we can’t decipher
they unwrap hard candies
push them into the children’s mouths
then all of us, helplessly, laugh
the day darkens
until I can no longer read
I wait, my cat waits
a squirrel arcs through fallen leaves
across the yard into woods
until the day brightens
abruptly, as if
the end of the day runs backward
until I can read again
the moon, the sun
paint shadows on my page
