Poem: Summer Walks

On our morning walk,
two hawks,
each sweeping low 
over the gravel road,
brown wings quiet 
as they slide 
between the trees. 
The wild petunias are in bloom,
as delicate as wet paper, 
fluted and purple
in impossible places 
and parched brown ground. 
We watch the raccoons 
and their babies 
make their morning rounds,
checking each spot in turn 
for where there might be food. 
They are both annoying 
and impressive 
in their persistent ingenuity 
and determination. 
On our evening walk 
I find a small, black feather,
a smooth and shining oval
with a hint of flight left in it. 
And, in a bright circle 
of setting sunlight 
we see a buck standing 
in the road,
graceful antlers silhouetted 
against the sky. 
He slips swiftly away 
between the blackberries 
and ironweed 
and almost as soon as he goes 
the patch of sunlight fades away 
as if it were only a dream. 
There are stories in the land
and poems in the weeds. 
There are dreams to uncover 
and hopes to birth. 
There are visions to hold 
and heartsongs to sing. 
There are prayers 
to live into being.


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