The old black locusts that line the driveway drop
a few more limbs with every storm but honey the air
with bloom each spring — a bloom that covers the yard
like snow when the oriole’s an orange flicker
between sycamore and oak. The mourning doves
call out from the cedar every summer dusk and dawn.
The moon rises behind the sugar maple, June’s sun
sets behind the ash, December’s behind the sweet gum.
These periods of home I know as my tongue knows the map
of my teeth, but in the bite of winter’s wind, I‘ve been
on speaking terms with the serpent, scorned songbirds,
thought to try my wing beside the red-tailed hawk,
to haunt the owl’s desaturated light. My hold
is the catbird’s aria, the chickadee’s bobbing flight,
the rhythm of your step when you come in from the shop.
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