Old times

The crunch of stubble underfoot

in the winter field

walking the hard

plow broken ground

kicking frozen clods

off the tops of the furrows

cold freezing hairs in my nose

A flock of crows hassling

a hawk or an owl

just over the hill

racketing rage and

flinging themselves up and down

in suicide dives

black rags

against the icy blue

 

Here's me now

in a cold asphalt bar parking lot

full of empty cars and cigarette buts

sitting in my truck waiting

for people I don't really care about

 

While offshore

out between the Islands

flocks of little sea ducks

Merganser and Scoter

a few Mallards

rafted up     

small dreadnoughts

riding the slow milky

swell of cruel sea ice mush