Oregon Dawn In Spite of the News
Before I can get to our statistics — so many
stricken, so many dead — I’m summoned
by the bird raising a ruckus outside, crows
and jays in festive outrage, trill, chirrr, and aria
from the little brown birds, the mournful
dove, the querulous towhee, rusty starlings
in their see-saw mutter, and a woodpecker
flicker hammering the gutter staccato.
On the porch, I’m assaulted by the merciless
scent of trees opening their million flowers,
as I inhale the deep elixir of hazel, hawthorn,
maple, and oh those shameless cherry trees.
And just when I’ve almost recovered
my serious moment, I gasp, helpless to see
the full queen moon sidling down
through a haze of blossoms.
- Kim Stafford