Because fall is a season of migration, I thought I would share a string of animal-themed poems. I also recently watched the American Masters documentary Mary Oliver: Saved by the Beauty of the World, and I was inspired by Oliver’s poems about the natural world. I hope to pay more attention to nature in my own life as autumn transitions to winter.
Bird Observation
A seagull fluttering
In the wind,
Intent on adhering
To some preordained
Flight pattern.
Wings outstretched
Above a traffic light—
How pretty the bird looks
Center framed in my windshield.
Witness
I look up as a group of birds
circles buildings in downtown Syracuse.
I resist the urge to pull out my cellphone
and snap a picture for Instagram.
Instead, I hold my gaze skyward,
letting the wind swirl around my face
and the rain patter my forehead,
as the birds duck in unison
behind a limestone structure—
the moment preserved nowhere except in my mind.
No pictures retained or sound recorded.
No trace of the birds in digital form.
And I think that’s the point, that’s life—
a collection of these impromptu glimpses of existence,
built into a collage, a kaleidoscope of images
demanding attention when presented.
From The Truth I Must Invent (Poets Choice, 2016)
Morning Flight Path
Three gray-white pigeons
flap their wings
as they dart into
a canopy of trees
outside a nursing home.
Their action reminds
the residents inside
that flight is attainable,
despite fragile bones
and defective hearts.
Yes, the senior citizens
can fly,
at least vicariously,
as long as they can
peer out their grimy windows
and suspend time,
while watching the pigeons
scudding across
the cerulean sky.
Aloft
A line of black birds perched
on a faded red billboard
overlooking Interstate-81
in downtown Syracuse—
feathered sentries
making aerial observations
of life thrumming below.
Squirrel No More
While walking along Walnut Avenue
near my apartment complex,
I see a dead squirrel splayed
in a shaded area close to the curb—
front paws erect, a rivulet of
brownish-red fluid
leaking from its head.
A fresh kill. A pelt of brown-black fur
pressed against the asphalt
like some animated character
in a Bugs Bunny cartoon.
I wonder whether I should call
the New York State Department
of Environmental Conservation.
Does the decaying organic matter
pose a health risk?
Should I pull the squirrel off to the side,
toss it in the high grass
adjacent to the curb?
Or let nature take its course—
with wind, rain and runoff
eroding the animal or
crows eating the meat?
And then more existential
queries fill my head.
Does the squirrel’s family miss it?
Are they conducting a neighborhood search?
Will they mourn the loss of their relative?
Do squirrels have souls?
Is there a heaven for rodents?
I don’t why this little animal’s death
seizes my attention,
but the small figure left out in the open
triggers a sense of pity.
And on this warm, sunny day
with blue skies above me
and trees swaying in the breeze,
with insects buzzing and
flowers bursting with color,
with so much life abounding—
the squirrel gets no more.
No more summers.
No more scurrying across power lines
or cutting through green fields.
No more autumn days
spent climbing trees and storing nuts.
The squirrel’s fate
reminds me once again
that death shall come to all of us
in one form or another.
In the end, all mammals will be
spattered in the road.
And I accept this fact
as I continue walking home.
From Outward Arrangements: Poems (independently published, 2021)
Contrast
Feathers replace leaves
In the naked trees
Looming above Genesee Street,
As flocks of crows arrive to
Take their repose and roost for the night,
The clumps of birds stretching for blocks,
A curtain of black set against
The landscape bleached white by
Fresh-fallen snow and layers of rock salt.
The Mystery of the Wolf
A summer evening in upstate New York—
a backyard sprinkler hisses
while the smell of fresh-cut grass
is pungent and delicious.
Crickets chirp and a coffee-colored mare
snorts from across the barbed-wire fence.
I am alone, kicking a soccer ball,
when a gray wolf emerges from
the high weeds lining the fence.
I try to run, but my legs lock up,
and I tumble to the ground.
The wolf circles me,
then sweeps in on my limp frame.
I can hear its stomach growling
as it hovers over me.
The tongue is extended
and drool splashes my face.
The wolf takes my neck in its mouth,
but does not bite down.
And I wake up in my bed,
thankful that the encounter is just a dream.
I am safe, and no wolf invades my room.
Yet I remain troubled,
afraid of closing my eyes,
drifting back to sleep
and ending up at the mercy
of another predator.
From Dreaming of Lemon Trees: Selected Poems (Finishing Line Press, 2019)
On the Other Side
The brown rabbit bounded across the road,
hind legs lifted in the air.
It beat the oncoming traffic
and darted into the underbrush,
a blur of fur dancing from sunlight to shadow.
The animal’s small heart throbbed in its chest
as it listened to the roar of cars rushing by.
It nibbled on some grass and rested for the night—
deciding to stay in place, ensconced in the bushes,
safe, alert, alive—
and feeling the air moving through its lungs,
breathing slower and slower and slower still.
Hard Shell
What goes through the mind of a turtle
When it’s sprawled on its back and can’t roll over?
Does it panic as its legs squirm in the air?
Does it stick out its tongue and try to scream for help?
Does it curse its maker as it writhes on the asphalt,
With the sun scorching its belly?
How long does it wait before giving up and accepting fate?
No. This turtle does not think.
It lacks the capacity to reason.
Instincts fire as it battles to survive:
“Get off your shell. Roll over. On your feet.”
It rocks from side to side as it labors to turn over.
It strains, twists, and kicks . . . but fails.
And no one will intervene—
There’s no Tom Sawyer kid with a hickory stick,
Skipping along and flipping the turtle over.
No semi-truck rumbles down the road,
Stirring up a blast of air and setting the turtle upright.
It struggles alone, refusing to quit
As it attempts to conquer physics.
The turtle keeps working
Until the sun desiccates its flesh,
And it releases a final breath—
A low croak that goes unheard along the deserted road.
The turtle is gone and no one witnessed the fight.
The Hawk
With wings outstretched,
A hawk hovers overhead.
I look up, admiring its flight.
The bird remains aloft,
As a gust of air carries it along
In the stillness of the afternoon.
The hawk soars between the campus buildings,
Then disappears from my sight,
As it pursues a quarry or
Scans the horizon for a perch.
But “no,” I think:
That’s not the way to end the poem.
The lines fail to capture the
Majesty of this creature.
And I realize any words I write
Are doomed to fall short,
As poetry can never improve
What nature has made perfect.
From Sidewalk Stories (Kelsay Books, 2017)
