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raptor in the fog

raptor in the fog—
less terrifying
when we call you
early-morning hawk
at the top of the tree


that quickly
gone again.
stress leaves on the out breath
of a storm.
one strong gust
and you can see again—
almost dawn through pine branches
U-Haul truck passing by our quiet houses

two small deer

two small deer grazing
blue Adirondack chairs wait
sit still, in sunshine


Incessant rain is one detour, shunting you away from the long autumn walk you meant to take. Instead of crisp leaf crackle underfoot, here are flash floods, thick mud that remembers being a dirt road, puddles deep as the dream of a lake.

A detour. And why does it frustrate you so? A detour means that once upon a time you had a destination in mind. You were going through the forest to the castle, or the fair, or to the market to sell the old cow when—

A detour means: This is where a new story begins. You run to escape the woodsman, the witch, the wolf. Or some stranger offers to sell you magic beans. And there you are, on a detour—in the house of dwarves or bears or in a world of hungry giants and golden eggs.

You weren’t born to grumble, wonder if the road will flood, worry about being lost or late. You were meant for this instead. So shout for joy—A detour? Sure! This is where adventure unrolls itself thick as a magic carpet floating over a road you didn’t ever plan to take.

rain boots

once again, rain boots
and umbrella—
in the car. Me?
In the house.
Is there an app for that?

and not of yellow bricks

your job is to smile today
at those so many decades
their heads full of
different concerns
but all of us
awake and moving
forward through the day
the years a path
we make as we walk

early riser

crickets fall silent—
to get a jump on the day
rain starts before dawn

this time

Here, I said
and handed myself the
of time enough to
or better yet

maybe turkeys

on the lake road
big flock of maybe turkeys
or turkey buzzards
waddle by the car
as we debate
who they really are.

fruit of the season

soft summer weather lingers
even in the rain—
but I’ve already turned away
towards every thing autumnal
pumpkin spiced or pumpkin colored

I eat the last peach in the bowl
ready for apples

The Novel Bunch

aka: The Happy Bookers

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I came to where you were living, up a stair. There was no one there.--John Ashberry, "The New Higher"

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A Ronka Poetry Practice Since 2014

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Where observation and imagination meet nature in poetry.