EVENSONG

Walking the river trail,

I see one boat, one fisherman

on the river, his back

against low sun.

I think of the Dakota,

the early ones in their river

solitude, knowing the currents

and when to head to shore.

Darkness narrows the river’s

silver path. I’m heading

home myself, up the steep hill,

a little breathless. A chill

from the woods touches my arm.

how we come to evening.

MOVING THROUGH TIME,

HOW WE LIVE

While the coffee brews,

I stare out the window

at the snow graying,

winter’s end.

A flight of sparrows crosses

the yard and I wonder

how they all agree.

They live here, thanks

to the lilac bushes and the neighbor’s

fir tree, good for hiding

from the hawk.

Smoke billows from a chimney

chugging into polar air

above a mountain peak of roof.

Smoke and sparrows on the lam.