New Year's Eve —
river's edge great blue heron
wraps itself in fog

another late night —
a tiny screech owl stays up
to laugh at us

stillness for stillness —
the kingfisher takes our cue
just this once

red-tailed hawk 
slicing through afternoon blue
making it look easy

on my born day
my father was afraid
of breaking me

neither of us
calling the other —
how ice begins

deep in the ground
frozen and yet still dreaming —
choose yourself again

(HT @uche_blackstock, for this Tweet)

the sound of scissors —
our Christmas village welcomes
a paper blizzard

sub-zero weather —
I can feel the door of my heart
starting to freeze shut

imagining
all this rain
as snow

the shortest day —
we layer up 
and get out into it

a full bowl of seeds 
from just that one sunflower —
cold weather bird treat

another hot flash —

the cool side of the pillow

moving out of reach

after the clouds left

our night got even colder —

the space between stars

we stay up late
happily trading yawns —
Christmas break

giving winter 
a cold shoulder —
red-tailed hawk

two days until break —
I plan tomorrow's outfit
around a Santa hat

longing to move
like a sleigh over the snow —
dreams in winter

remember that bed
where we felt every rollover?
me too

quick flicker of white —
the dark-eyed junco's tail
as it tours our roof

we pull 
our deep longing for escape
up like a blanket

at the post office
in one long line together —
love in small boxes

slowly wheeling stars
over dark and frozen fields —
sleep just out of reach

before we know it
the sun is down and out —
I lose track of you

our late night laughter —
somewhere out in the fields
a fox cocks her head

we told the boys
find a mom or a drag queen
if you get scared

clouds sliding away
as the sun fills the lake
with gold and more gold

my lover whispers
your hair smells like gingerbread —
holiday baking

late night rain —
we look for the moon's glow
behind the clouds

one more blanket,
another book on my stack —
courting the Solstice

we remake the bed
this time with flannel sheets —
static sparks jumping

ice-glazed puddles
repeating the dawn's report —
red to pink to blue

secret ingredient —
alongside the butternut
I roast an apple

thinking of doorways
I stood on the threshold of
before turning back

cold water dripping
as we lift them up and out —
stowing the boats

we find Jupiter
and then turn to find Mars, too —
too cold to linger

windshield ice —
for a few morning minutes
it's all I can see

slowly waking up
the rest of the family —
pumpkin pie scent

when he returns home
every space we held open
purrs with contentment

my kind of air show —
four swans in tight formation
so close we heard wings

pink fading to blue
before it goes fully black —
another trans sky

they took his gun but
not before he took five lives —
dance like there's no…

grass limned with frost —
I listen for the sound
of no mosquitos

once the bees have gone
the moths swing by for a turn —
clover in the moonlight

snow-scented air
as the days grow shorter —
waiting on juncos

thin streams of cold air
snaking around my ankles —
frost in the forecast

mid-November storm —
each of our drainpipes
racing the others

wingbeats in time
with my startled heart —
meeting by surprise

a sudden wind
flings fallen leaves skyward —
our friends share their news

another hot flash
and I'm up before the light —
trees for company

not touching the ground
felt something like flying —
those early bike rides

brisk morning walk —
toes happy at the thought of
kicking through ginkgo leaves

before they start
pretending to be someone else —
mockingbirds' first notes

changing my vote —
one crisp fall day puts autumn
back on top

one more night
of getting in our own way —
blood red eclipse

learning to hush
when wrens have something to say —
rivulets of song

knowing a home run
by the sound of the crowd —
post-season

we should have told him
to walk towards the setting sun —
giving directions

late afternoon sun
poured out over the fields —
not a drop wasted

picking paint colors —
all day long we talk
about purples

evening grosbeaks
working their way south —
nights getting cooler

one more Hallowe'en —
we try not to scare
the ghosts and witches

spiderwebs beaded
with early morning fog —
visibility cloak

eighty-fifth birthday —
my mother claims the last bite
of cheesecake for herself

tossing songs around
where I heard them yesterday —
a pair of mockingbirds

soup season —
the scent of last night's garlic
waiting in my kitchen

family troubles —
I try again to hum along 
to a tune I don't know

we watched from the dock
as the bridge disappeared —
late October fog

woven shakily
by a too-tired spider —
this web's story

unseen and unheard
migrating saw-whet owls —
treasures in the sky

we let our lawn go
as a way to remember —
no way is forever

late October morning —
fog wraps up the lake
to take it home

brightly hued leaves
spiraling down to the ground —
the maple looks on

frost on the dock —
winter leaves her calling card
where we will see it

early evening —
the scent of someone's bonfire
keeping us outside

who has gone missing?
my heart worries silently
that it's one of us

raking up leaves
just to give myself the chance
to kick through them

late night
turning to early morning —
talking to my dead

we commit ourselves
to fighting for the changes
we won't live to see

storing up seeds
for the harder days ahead —
upside-down nuthatch

wind blowing colder —
our reasons for going out
dwindle and vanish

finding your flock —
National Coming Out Day
has me out looking

first bird of the day —
I shush everyone so we
can hear the screech owl

neighborhood potluck —
I snag a second helping
of the kids' laughter

the yard full of leaves —
I give myself permission
not to finish

fallen petals
outnumbering
the ones hanging on

clouds finally shift
and give starlight a chance —
early morning walk

old candle stubs
and rolls of pennies —
her "just in case" drawer

even in the rain —
goldfinches in the garden
plucking out seeds

back and forth between
a warning and a blessing —
the rain keeps switching

before the voyage —
a list of all we forgot
the last time

rainy morning —
I pull my hands up
into my sleeves

first days of autumn —
on my way out the door
I grab a hat

another long night
without light or power —
Lee County

listening
to the water rise
in the dark

pale radish seedlings
putting all their energy
into finding light

triangular head
turning to keep me in view —
praying mantis

late night lightning —
we set our books aside
and watch the window

football weather —
the crowd's cheer floats to us
a perfect spiral

the sun's last rays
leave some orange behind —
top of the maple

autumn equinox —
my yawn after lunch
dividing the day

screech owl at dawn —
each of us wondering
why is she awake?

we set our plan down
in the middle of the flood
and watch it wobble

bringing umbrellas
to test the rain's resolve —
then again, wet seems fine

at the garden's edge
all green angles and cocked head —
praying mantis

filling the bird bath —
warm autumn afternoons
perfect for preening

maples leaves starting
to think about turning —
we switch to long socks

watch the grass revive
as rain soaks the earth —
we perk up too

early autumn —
the inside and outside air
call a truce

we each built a home
in the children's book section —
tucked like a bookmark

so deep our relief
when we could see stars again —
quiet constant guides

unrelenting rain —
we come home to remember
what dry feels like

restless starlings
swirling their way towards dusk —
I plan my trip home

full moon feeling close —
the moth we somehow let in
prefers to stay

driving west —
searing sun seeming to die
as it falls

morning puddles —
full to the brim with rain
I slept right through

goldfinches in fall —
knowing we'll all change our song
when the rain returns

now is the season
of small yellow butterflies —
adjusting our focus

Labor Day weekend  —
I flick the alarm button
to "off"

he tells us about
goldfinches in the garden  —
they fly as we look

rocks basking in sun
where the creek bed once was —
who cast this dry spell?

warm summer air
lifting the circling hawk —
small sliver of moon

flutter and buzz
just above the flowers —
summer running out

now we can pick out
individual voices —
crickets dwindling

bright ball of the moon
coming up over the treeline
one more time

day's end — 
the whine of a mosquito
somebody let in

new haircut — 
the way maples looked ragged
after the cicadas

bracing myself for
the big step down to the dock —
late summer drought

iridescent flash —
the throat of a hummingbird
as she turns to go

out of the west
a gust of wind carrying
goldfinch song to us

late August —
the sun knocks off early
again

just before the sound
of thunder drawing near —
the sighing of trees

another day 
of watching the clouds darken —
we were promised rain

little feet turning
the birdbath water purple —
pokeberry season

when we see the fox
there is a moment that feels
like surprise, like relief

invisible thread —
we turn to each other
with corn silk smiles

August heatwave  —
deep yellow rudbeckia
bleaching in the sun

old camp songs
curled up in the embers
waiting on a breath

hearing the crickets
through the open windows —
cooler nights at last

flower to flower —
I try in vain to follow
a swallowtail

I bring my dad back
so I can show him the ways
our boy is like him

in the front garden
brighter than any flower —
busy goldfinches

spiraling upward
first monarchs of the season 
leaving our rest stop

vacation photos —
the edge of the ocean
the wide of the sky

beyond the trees
past the last train's whistle —
climbing near-full moon

flip turns 
as I approach the wall —
planning for the glide

letting myself think
about the damp curls
at the back of her neck

strawberry season —
approaching each bent stalk with
anticipation

rolling thunderheads
just passing through again —
brown grass looking on

no escape —
every conversation
returns to the heat

swing set memories —
his little legs pumping him
further and further

together we try
to watch the hummingbird —
looking where it was

two old crickets
sawing away in the heat —
not tired yet!

sneaking up
on the swallowtail —
Sunday afternoon

rewriting forecasts —
what are the chances
of fireflies tonight?

apologizing
to our plants about the drought —
whispers like rain

another hot night —
the township asks us 
to use less water

pianissimo —
palest possible yellow
breast of a peewee

sharing the hawk —
we show a stranger who stops
so she can see, too

at the hill's crest
we stop for a minute
to let the wind find us

day's end in summer —
our legs telling the story
of yesterday's walk

brilliant afternoon —
we walk along the cliffs
reapplying sunscreen

a shadow crossed us —
we looked up into the blue
and found an eagle

she flies away
I feel my heart go with her —
yellow swallowtail