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another reason for all these words
is so I don’t forget
how yesterday a blue jay swooped
beneath my moving car, under and
out again or the junior high boy
with long red hair and a notebook
full of pencil sketches
he wanted someone to see
or how that jet contrail caught
sunlight and carried a
gold thread of connection
across the blue sky
threading together
all these pieces of a day

A banner appears on the screen
congratulating me. As of yesterday
ten thousand times
somebody read these poems.

Ten thousand. Who could imagine
A number that large?

In other news, also yesterday
low clouds hooked
lace through the trees
Then
tall and antlered, he stepped
slowly towards and across the road
not bothering to meet our peasant eyes
so accustomed to the admiring, fearful
way we gaze at forest royalty

And then there is now—when I
write the words, stir their places on
the page while coffee brews
full moon shines through
and the restless puppy circles,
settles and I try not to make any
Interesting Noises so I can finish
this poem, for reader number
ten thousand
and one

far out in the field
dark and four legged
Dog? Bear?
Distance
between us
blurs whoever you are

fall dandelions
by the cemetery gate
spiced and windswept dreams

puppy’s favorite treat
autumn dandelions
sweet bites of yellow

dandelion fluff
promises to sleep till spring
fresh crop of sunshine

raptor in the fog—
less terrifying
when we call you
early-morning hawk
red-tailed
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 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.

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

your job is to smile today
at those so many decades
younger
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