Vega
On my bed in late afternoon I am listening
to the thrush with his song now down perfect
if not pat, and a note drawn across a tractor a mile
or more away, yes, here among scents of honeysuckle
and full-bore blackberry, wisps of bedstraw, just me, solo,
looking up at the spider crossing the ceiling constellation
then out the window where a chipmunk clucks
and a mink is running along the stone wall into
the woods, yes, here is where I would go, no need
to knock a hole in the wall to let my soul out,
the window is open so it can drift off over the beanflowers
and squash blossoms, over the worm sliding back
down after the shower, over the slug determined
to get somewhere, over chickadees in the massive
white pine, the bear digging out ants from a rotten stump,
over the turkey-vultures riding the thermals into Lyra
and coyotes who bring night to life, yes, here,
in Vega, today just a general store fallen in and
boarded up, occupied for now by a young woman
who washes herself and her baby in the stream
and hides like a nymph or faun when I pass by.
