F. Daniel Rzicznek
The End of Spring
Several hawks crouch
above the whirling shadows,
scanning for rodents
burrowing into the daylight.
I’ve been a student
of the wind farm’s rhythms
for less than an hour: long
enough to be a bridge
of easy human breath
swaying from lung to ear.
-
The dump charges a fee
to drop brush and dirt off,
shreds it all to mulch
and then sells it back
at twenty five bucks a ton,
orphaned fragments of earth
made into a living engine.
I drive home and light
a dozen candles to let
the windmills, that spin
our lights and machines
into li
The End of Spring
Several hawks crouch
above the whirling shadows,
scanning for rodents
burrowing into the daylight.
I’ve been a student
of the wind farm’s rhythms
for less than an hour: long
enough to be a bridge
of easy human breath
swaying from lung to ear.
-
The dump charges a fee
to drop brush and dirt off,
shreds it all to mulch
and then sells it back
at twenty five bucks a ton,
orphaned fragments of earth
made into a living engine.
I drive home and light
a dozen candles to let
the windmills, that spin
our lights and machines
into li