Wild tom yesterday at the far
edge of woods
cautiously measuring potential

snatching bugs from leaves
of cinnamon and interrupted ferns.

Today under the bird feeder
still alone among the dross
of sunflower seeds.

I imagine him
the Judas of turkeys,
outcast and made brave
by his hunger

or the Magdalene of turkeys
shunned
for being most
what the others need.

Deer seasons in Vermont proliferate.
To date:
Bow season, mostly,
with a modicum of luck,
a breeze.

Rifle Season, when snipers wait
in ambush, in the arms of mother maples,
eyes to telescopic sights effective
at a thousand yards;
discreetly gender-bent for Doe and Buck
(including pronghorns),

distinctions only for the prey,
(who haven't got a prayer).

We add insult to injury with
Crossbow and Muzzle Loader Seasons,
for hunters with a flare for drama,
favorites of deer with a nose
for human history.

Every armchair marksman
has a deer-in-the-headlights story... Read more

On a day rain softens
until there is no air only water
I take off my clothes
and go naked into the garden
a water man among water trees
water shrubs water flowers

the green frogs too are water
jays and doves are water goldfinches
flash like light reflecting in water
the houses of chipmunks and snakes
by the pond are water

in a world of water
fish swim on the underside of water
only the woodchuck under the shed
a bureaucrat snuffling over papers
a poet with black eyes is dry

after drought even the fish dance
when we kiss when you take me
into your mouth when I take you
into mine the bee is inside the rose
the rose entirely humming

the child emerges headlong
from the humming waters of the mother
from her viscous parting
heart gills shut forever wet mouth opens
takes the mother in omphalos rush
still ringing in his ear canals the sound of rain

sister to a thrush's song at evening
over and over repeating inside and out
whip of the hummingbird's tongue
at courting apogee of pendulum
turtle's cracked mud eyes wet again
I cannot tell on which side
of water skin between us I am.... Read more

Remember the father's unguarded wish
for the young men who failed
to return from the well.
This is the wide world.
We want to think that wishing
can make it so.
Pictures of bodies, downed in ambush,
are these birches, fallen in snow.
Worried little sister
takes a bit of bread, a chair to rest,
her mother's ring.
She goes to the glass mountain.
Who would not sacrifice
the little finger of her left hand
for a key to death's door
if it will save them?
Remember that magic thinking
is no substitute for wisdom.
No more than religion
is a recipe for peace.

DANIEL LUSK... Read more