All these poems are the same


We drive for five minutes to the trailhead

pass dirt brown deer in snow-flattened fields,

a pheasant on the side of the road

and two ducks in the ditch.


A single crow sits on the closed gate.


Near the fishway I enter

a young eagle’s comfort zone

and pretend not to see her

watching me come and go.


All these poems are the same.


A sort of old guy

walking his dog before work.

Stopping and looking around.

Crossing the dam.


And now it’s spring,

and the kids are coming home from Newfoundland.

Pink surveyor’s tape tied to a branch,

prayer flag in a breath of wind.




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