"sandhill cranes"
Originally published in Briar Cliff Review; nominated for Pushcart Prize

they stand like chessmen in the field
shorn down to stubble, and soon they will slide
across the troubled checkerboard of october:
 
early frosts slashed through by night.
they are gray and austere as dolphins
etched onto the lid of a coffin, as a tin bucket
 
filling with a truckload of snow.
this pair of downy candleholders, it is said
they mate for life, relighting their red crowns
 
again and again.  it’s true:  my wife
and i made our moves long ago:  queen
to knight, cheek to chest, bird to bee.
 
now, when i stand cooking eggs
in the rookery of our kitchen, or i’m there
reading field guides in the rocking chair,
 
sometimes i feel grace sweep my neck
like a feather.  i expect her to be behind me,
but no:  she’s ironing, the fat silver tongue
 
grooming her clothes like a cat,
while she hums songs she’s made up
about mothers, flying, the weather.