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