Roosters, Wild

Roosters, wild, brought to ruin in folds

               of parapet and dandelion.

               White deciduous Elm bound

               to chromatic hill-line.

Each day the roosters grow louder,

                cadence of chaos unfurled.

               Rifling briar thrush, warblers and ridge-

               grouse speckled in hearth.

From the balcony we hear

               soft pine give and flush

               the scarious roosters.

               Plumes shred in quip of wind.

The map of invitation abbreviated.

               It has been six years in Muldoon's Bridge,

               an isolated anchorage

               willed in survival.

No cars trudge though the frozen lexicon of
our amiable diction.

               No tourists hunt in melody of season,

               drawing guns a tip above shoulder,

               hands garnished with stink and polish.

My roosters, nefarious and sagacious

               adorn ruddy crowns of twilight.

               Timbre of the fox worn

               into giddy laughter.

Gravity of owl whose yips

               so patient they cuddle

               fissures of the soul.

Above the trove of honeybee,

               busy absent bodies retrieve

               semblance of Orpheus' shadow.

Quiet and the sound dissipates,

               delicate in perihelion of ear,

               periphery abates soloist thought.

How wan the rooster is

               with cackle-less mate.

               Her nest aloof in foray.

My thoughts retreat as if deciduous.

               Welts of snow and waist-high thistle.

               When I sleep I dream of primrose

               painted in mendicant yellow.

   The roosters call each morning with the timorous song of
Love.

               If I am too lonely, they know to sing louder.

               If I am too cautious they thwart the song with
plaint intrusion.

 

Greeting of the Mountain's Home

 

There are many ways across a mountain.
Through branch, briar, bramble,

        over
scree, sleet, each edge torn from ledge.

Once saw a grouse carry a gourd into
its nest.

        Then kitty it up to the furthest

nook 'til it teetered out. Seeds spilled
from the flesh.

I stripped my shirt from body and climbed
until my hands were as raw as feet.

The sun but a brook resting in a wavering field.

When I reached the top, I looked for the glint
of tent. But in not seeing it

felt the feral unburdening of release.

        My clothes rattling in scorn wind.

I closed my eyes, the carious howl seething

deep
in me.

The shadow of a passing eagle etched into the rock.

I swore I would grab my hold of my countenance
and spend eternity

clothed in disparate wilderness.

        But then the thought seemed a trespass,
a courtesy

        of the mountain's home.