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Bird Blind

My camera slung like a bandolier,
    I head out to hunt the hawk,
the broad-winged sling-shotting
    his solitary note over the woods,
the one I saw yesterday perched
    high in a white pine. I imagine

the dramatic shot I’ll take – the big bird
    in flight, wing and tail feathers fanned
like open hands of cards, revealing
    the deal. Sunshine warms my back
as I perch on a rock by a spring-fed
    pool, look up at the pine, and wait

for my lucky ace. Then I hear
    a faint splash, look down
toward the pool. Aim. Shoot.
    A pair of goldfinches dunking
their heads. A red-breasted nuthatch,
    black racing stripes lining each eye,

hopping on a stone. A warbler dipping
    his beak and mooning me
with his yellow rump.
    My shutter shuffles
with unimaginable plays.
    I’ve come to love the little cards.

Time Travelers

In the crater of my palm, I feel the work
of a billion years. Iridescent in sunlight,
the stone is smooth and wet, the size
of a pocket watch and shaped like a flat egg.
Once molten lava, it bubbled, flowed, cooled
and hardened before being fractured by glaciers,
eroded by rainwater and carried by streams
into this wild lake’s tumbler of wind-blown waves
and rocky shoreline. Curling my forefinger around
one edge and thumbing the top, I watch my laughing
children skipping their stones, time bouncing on water.

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