Wild

It is an odd snow, these caltrops and whirligigs

these green blades and brown stones

that tumble out of branches

or drift down

as the tree exhales.

* * *

What is that bird that wakes me every morning?

He sings the opening lines of a song

but never finishes it.

It is not the flute of the meadowlark,

nor the percussion of the crow.

Perhaps he is a stranger to these parts

and he is looking for the end to his song.

* * *

I can hear the rivers and the trails calling

but I cannot answer;

I have other masters just now.

But I hear them.

I feel the water in my skin,

the dust on my teeth.

I am coming. I am coming.

* * *

You think the sky is blue but see this:

there is a film of yellow spread finely over it.

This honey-coated day,

this air outside so soft,

how can I not feel a little bit wild?