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by Marion Menna I wake to the call of crows converging on icy pastures; at noon they will sit in the tops of the trees facing the sun The dusky bats are asleep in their nests, field mice, chipmunks, rabbits, voles, their tunnels exposed on snow-sodden lawns I miss the cows, the calves, the curious bull who took a step back in mock terror at my small terrier's bluff and barking They stay close to the barn these days away from the swales of mud and ice or have they been sent to market? A pod of wild turkeys comes out of the woods to cull bits of corn and frozen beetles to take in the sun and wash their scabrous feet Soon bluebirds will build nests in twin boxes at the edges of fields, mobbed by sparrows, guarded by swallows who are willing to share Tonight I will read about bats, pollinators, ancient symbols of happiness, who are dying in the caves west of Albany with white rings round their noses caused by some unknown virus I turn eastward and whisper into the wind Return to:
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