Fallison Lake

June. We search for ladyslippers
growing by pines near boggy ponds.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs—

for now we feel free from dangers,
headlines. The forest’s green deepens
June. We search for ladyslippers,

listen to competing songs—birds
belt out their latest number ones.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs

new grass. Take my hand, love. It’s yours.
Last autumn’s leaves, no longer bronze.
June. We search for ladyslippers

hiding from us interlopers—
when we talk, their silence responds.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs

briefly, a cat who wakes up, purrs,
runs off looking for liaisons.
June. We search for ladyslippers.
Wind makes little sound when it stirs.

originally appeared in Tipton Poetry Journal (2006)

Evicted Turtles

Where we searched for turtles
became a golf course. A small pond,
now a water trap. Turtles
lolled, paddled around. Messy

and wet, we’d go in
to pull them out,
take them home
till too many died
from air-conditioned rooms. We

learned to let them be, stopped
wading in to grab them, watched
when one would bloop
or another stick its weird head out
to see if we were worth looking at

before water’s dark door opened
to let them in.

forthcoming from Pudding Magazine

Minnows Under the Boat

While rowing through lilypads
to a reedy sandbar,
a tongue sticking out,

I see minnows zigzag,
slipping away quickly,
like an owl’s hoot

when I lie in a rented bed,
the moon thumbing me
like magazine pages.

originally appeared in Midwest Quarterly (1989)

Sandbar

In a fiberglass tub,
a dead fish and grass smell
lead to a knifeline of sand
scratched on the bay. Summers

I crave stagnation,
dragonflies, reeds
and sunning turtles.

I pull in, tie the anchor
to a stump. An oriole skims
yellow water lilies.
A fisherman sings,

his bullfrog voice
in weedy water.

An intruder, I row out.

originally appeared in Orbis (1991)

Heron

A blue heron raises
her weapon beak—

with gray-blue wings and
Mozart-writing-a-scherzo eyes,
we don’t dare get

too close. She demands
distance, can snag a snake,
eat every bit.

forthcoming from Blue Unicorn

Loons

How many years have we come here?
Forty for me, for you, seven.
We’ve never seen loons swim so near,

almost to where we stand by clear
lake water. You: “This is heaven!”
How many years have we come here

looking for wildlife, even deer,
eating gardens back home, but then
we’ve never seen loons swim so near,

dipping, diving, showing no fear
as we try to be quiet men.
How many years have we come here

to escape the rest of the year,
to touch without job-stress again?
We’ve never seen loons swim so near,

yet they keep alert—they know we’re
close. Will they fly? We don’t know when.
How many years have we come here?
We’ve never seen loons swim so near.

originally appeared in Main Channel Voices (2005)

In the Wildlife Center

Through the screen door
of their cage, we stare in—
both owls stare back,
make no sound:

pollen falling gently
on birch branches
in depths of a forest.

Tamarack Swamp

A wooden path gets us
close to a pitcher
plant colony. I leave planks
to drop my eyes
into the biggest one. You stay

on the path, snap pictures.
I had forgotten spongy
sphagnum moss, crash
right through. Wet socks,

shins. I look at you,
a few steps ahead,
wonder what I’m not seeing,
what dangers hide. Silent,

we keep walking.

originally appeared in the Kansas City Star

Minoqua

Taxidermy, resorts, gift shops,
restaurants, Minoqua
fills with families and

fishermen. In fall, the town’s
like a party with a few
guests left till hunting season.

February fishermen cut holes
in ice. April’s warmer
winds ruffle a wildflower

blanket, streets runny
with the thawing blood
of winter’s corpse.

Up North

Up north we sit in Someplace Else:
my friend, the only woman
except for waitresses.
Orange jackets, hunters
talk of last year’s kill, Eagle River’s
upcoming Snowmobile Championship.

A portrait of a deer in the woods
with a woman’s face
hangs above us. Forks, knives,
coffee cups, and painted hooves
fleeing through lichen.

At the bar a drunk swerves
between whiskey and peanuts,
trips out to his car, a deer on its top.
His wife, probably at home,
a wedding picture above the bed:
she in white, he in black.
Orange sky pursuing whatever moves.

originally appeared in Island (1985)