Impressions of my cabin up north, while sitting on my home-built front porch swing.
Here in the heart of Woodpecker Hollow
one finds the so sought-after solace that salves
a weary soul.
The trees give ovation to the rising of the sun
as a gentle breeze rustles their leaves.
A lazy dog lies languorously 'neath a worn old picnic table
cradling between her two front paws
a tired, mud-covered soccer ball
like a little girl does her favorite dolly.
The Sand-hill cranes warble their alien cries across the forest
while a pair of pileated woodpeckers wing perilously
twixt the boughs of the trees cackling their laughter at
one another; ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!
All the while, three eagles soar above
riding thermals in the sky, eyeing the woods
expecting an unwary gopher
or field mouse
or kit rabbit.
At night, the owls call out their melancholy,
everlasting, never answered question
to each other
to the night,
to the moon.
And the coyotes yip-yap
and the wolves bay
and the frogs chee
and the little snipe fleetly flitter-flutter from the front
of any approaching vehicle
like a great, grand game of chicken. Wait!
As long as you can; 'til the metal monster
is upon you! Then fly!
The black bear sown blackberry bushes
and raspberry vines, line the trails neatly,
plumply tempting the
wandering wayfarer wearily waving away
the mosquitoes and no-see-ums
that buzz about the head.
The creak of the swing
on the front porch of the cabin
overlooking the fire-pit cheerily,
brightly-burning, pungent wood smoke
rising to the sky, lulls its captive to
sweet, deep, sleep.