No Match for the Tempest

No Match for the Tempest

Late March: Wiggles of earthworms stirred
by the full moon’s passage above a stormy sky,
gale-force winds whipping splats of rain and dust
blasting a flock of sleeping juncos to wake,
their evergreen roost no match for the tempest.

Dawn and the poplar trees give over, shed verses
of sticky yellow pods, lauds of maroon-catkins
(like caterpillars, worms, we used to call them).

I scatter seed and watch all day, hoping to see
the pick/peck of hungry birds, the flash of white
tail feathers in flight from walkers, rowdy dogs.

But when no juncos appear, I fear they’ve gone,
prey to the Worm Moon’s latest flare, the birds
blown into the land we call Kingdom Come
where, no matter what I say, I cannot follow.

Author: Margaret Koger

Photo: j.a. uppendahl on Unsplash