after an absence in the mountains; great

black clanging birds, they sought clear air

and found my bird table with smaller birds

assembled, as yet unaware that fate

had ended their security. I heard

the trumpet tones and matched responses,

saw the dark shapes in the branches

and more swooping through the sky;

uproarious jubilation ringing high,

they celebrated their return to where

they fed last spring and summer. Here

they now could rear their hungry young

until, as hoodlum birds the youngsters soar

to mountain forests to absorb the law. 

Web Makers

Iridescent threads are home enough for morning spiders,

toilers of the night. Industrious architects whose silk tents

blow in fineness beyond delicate. Arachne's children's viscous

     trail of silk is spilled from secret stores to reel on paths of air.

Silk glides from out their spinnerets and soon the fragile ladder

     lifts the spiderling into the breeze and off it floats with fate

to take the wind's way. Morning light maps where they journey

in the dark; etched across branches, links from flower to post.

Perfect woven wheels fixed fast to fence and tree trunk. Only

early sun illuminates this lace to show their secret places.

We who wonder about deities suspend our disbelief at dawn.