The wind is high and the sodden ground a shocking
green. I pick up fallen branches so my father can aerate
the lawn, and startle wood pigeons from the underbrush.
They startle me as well. We had a cold winter, finally—
first in over a decade. As with any living thing, the waking land
needs tending. Inside the house for water, yellow light
and close air. The cat, alone now, darts up the stairs.
Where are you going, I should ask her, leaning on the sink,
shadow of a turkey vulture slipping blue across the grass.