Looking Back to Day 70 of Covid-19

April 5, 2020

Day 70 of Covid-19

I entered the woods before dawn,

not scary at all, but unlike yesterday

when the rabbits and deer were ripe,

this morning oozed silence, and I was alone,

the icy rain that fell late in the afternoon and

long into the night, all the creatures of

the dawn, hunkered down, but me.

Annie watched it fall yesterday, and said

I hope it doesn’t kill the buds, and I replied

they’ve been here before, as if I knew something.

Anything at all. Which of course I didn’t.

And don’t.

The birds slept in late, but soon they woke,

limbered their joints, stretching tall,

then lifted their voices in song,

as the gray skies brightened.

Tall grass, covered with ice, crackled

beneath my feet. Twigs popped like

single kernels of popcorn.

Inspecting buds and twigs closely,

I saw the rain fell, then started to drip,

then froze, imprisoned instantaneously,

some drops freezing, I’m sure, mid-air,

as they hurtled to the ground. Gravity.

Others captured, frozen in time, mid-stride.

Spring flowers, Hepatica, Dutchman's breeches,

and more, snuggling in, heads tucked down

wearing small capes of ice on their shoulders.

But not the fungi, Turkey Tail and more,

the ice gained no purchase, and I put my

cheek close, wondering if I could feel

the heat of tiny ovens inside.

I passed my walking stick

hand to hand, as it too

was covered with ice,

as it sleeps every night

in the bed of my pickup.

A breeze rattled the icy

branches, and the air filled

with an orchestra of wind chimes.

I knelt to inspect some possum tracks

on a game trail, and spooked a

couple of ducks who scolded me,

their voices echoing

as they moved to another pond.

There’s always another pond...

Chubby cardinals on icy branches,

in serenade. Wooing.

At a spent bean field at the edge of the timber,

40 or so blackbirds grazed like cattle,

then leapt into the air as one,

to circle in flight briefly, only to settle

a dozen or so feet away. Again, then again.

Cackles like mumbles.

A drumming flicker told me it was time

for breakfast, and to head home, where the

girls were still likely warm in bed, like toast.

---

If you liked this poem, you might like Deep Midwest: Midwestern Explorations, published by Steve Semken with Ice Cube Press. Steve has done more for midwestern and Iowa authors than anyone. He has a great list you will enjoy.

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