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 life, slacken their pace.

                  -

Anything that survives
survives persecution:

toads in the knotweed,
ragtag clan of coyotes

crisscrossing state lines.
Even the young geese

paddling the toxic ditches
along the landfill’s margin

teach an empty lesson:
to be of this century

assumes that bliss always
and only precedes waste.

                  -

The mated peregrines
nesting in the clocktower

leave the heads and wings
of songbirds on the roof.

After a good rain, the pieces
wash into the gutters,

spilling out and tumbling
down the courthouse steps.