Page 71 - WCM 2023 Winter Flip

oets Society
P
Flock
Gregarious as a gaggle of geese, we gather in ice fishing shacks, bingo halls and yoga classes. We stomp into general stores after the big storms.
Shrill as a scold of jays, we scream in the bleachers at Viking games, on the Zipper at the Oxford Fair, at the chill of the season’s last swim, and karaoke night at the local pub.
Mutual as a murder of crows, we meet in VFWs, Granges, art galleries, ski lodges,
bridge tournaments, ballparks, farmers’ markets and festivals.
Resilient as a rafter of turkeys, we run on treadmills, plant perennials, raise funds for neighbors in need, put our land in trust and
vote for change together.
And often, as a flock,
Lisa Moore
Portent
Birds have disappeared from the lawn;
no robins, no jay, cardinal or sparrows skim the grass or sample the feeder’s seeds. No gulls complain; no turkeys gobble.
Only a red-tailed hawk clings to a dead high branch of a neighbor’s tallest pine;
its measured screes hover in the cloud gray dinner-time sky, haunting the air, then halt. Some addled chickens hustle to hide.
Three fish crows, silent but watchful, patrol the road’s shoulder, one at attention like a soldier on duty, one eye roving,
then the mute trio flaps slow wings
into the low bracken of wayside shelter. Fingers of fog slip through maple limbs and limp leaves; no creature stirs at home.
No wind: Quiet stands still to listen. Emptiness sits on porch chairs.
No voices: Silence stares.
Unsettled, I am not sure what to do. A storm is coming.
Michalene Hague
wefly.
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