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The Hawk at the Clearing

The pines are holding in their breath; the mist still kneels in silver rows. He keeps the morning folded close, one dark, unhurried, listening rose. The cere is gold, a small exact sun set over law the first wind wrote. Each feather laid like shield on shield, a living psalm the forest wrote. No sermon…
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A Morning Visitor

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The Sanderling’s Grace

Along the silvered edge of tide,Where restless waters meet the shore,A sanderling on stilted strideAttends the sea’s unhurried lore.His feathered mantle, ash and snow,A cloak of cloud upon the swell;He bends where shallow ripples flowAnd gleans what humble tides foretell.No hurried thought disturbs the air,He keeps a slower, older creed:To walk the margin, stoop, and…