Our Ark  

Our Ark  

If it’s the spruce it must be the mourning doves, the willow— the two blue birds
the arborvitaes—robins

If it’s the shagbark hickory the red-headed woodpecker

If it’s the red oak at the far end of the trail the magnificent male pheasant

If it’s the underbrush at the inflow-end of the pond the woodcock
the cattails beyond the outflow-end the two geese

If it’s the sweet Williams it’s the ruby-throated hummingbird

If it’s the dark corner of the front porch the spider webbing

If it’s the barn rafter the swallows

If it’s the blossoming apple tree surely the orioles

If it’s the deep burrow near the basement the chipmunk
the attic the squirrel (never the other way ‘round)

If it’s the pile of stacked maple— the possum we discovered in our headlights
licking its paws— stock still, steadfast

If it’s the recovering strip mine it’s the blue heron and red-winged blackbird
perched on cattails and pussy willows and at dusk the chorusing tree peepers

If it’s the matted down grass on the wood’s edge the deer

If it’s the green shoots of lettuce the slugs, the friendly snake in the squash patch
,
if it’s the front porch rocking chair it’s the bull’s skull and the cow’s pelvic bone
we arranged for our deranged still life,

If it’s the sweeping circle of the middle sky it’s the turkey buzzard or possibly the evasive eagle we saw once and once only
perched on the roof of the abandoned house

If it’s love we’re making in the secluded field the other side of Sterrett Road
and the two blue silos the scurrying of wild turkeys

If it’s the dream it’s the bear lumbering