© Evie Chang Henderson
Morning’s reluctant fog slinks
and daylight whispers arch
over woods defining
the untamed foliage beneath me;
grass tassels heavy with seed
sway gently in the wind––
a bob white’s call echoes across,
punctuated by shrill cries of
a killdeer mourning her nest
destroyed in newly mowed grass.
There’s always company
on this mile of wires and poles;
early chatter and chirps rise and fall––
eager to start the day.
But I must be watchful––
hawks also prowl the neighborhood.
Each day has a story and
sometimes the road below
veins with blood––beckoning
vultures who can feast for days.
Clouds bank––still blush,
beyond trees that rim these fields,
then streak white across the sky
to waters that lap
docks and bulkheads nearby––
a saltiness in confluence
with earth musk and morning glory.
But, it’s time to move on,
grasshoppers are beginning to stir
and feed I must.
(First Place, Poetry/New Bern Literary Symposium - 2009)
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