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May Day
- Red Hen Press
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103 May Day I sit as still as I can for as long as I can. Outside, a cloud crosses the sun. Then another. In April, a wild turkey took up temporary residence in the yard. The end of April. It had snowed again. The bird scratched for acorns under the trees and dismantled the garden beds in search of grubs. She sat in one bed then and preened, lifting her feathers in outrageous circles like fans, every shade of brown its own flirtation. Then she found a patch of sun and went to sleep. This was yesterday. I hoped she would build a nest in the high pines, but I had nothing to tempt her beyond acorns, grubs, the sunlight, a tin of seed. I don’t claim to be patient. I’ve been ready for winter to end, ready to end any chill I may have brought back with me. And yes, the snow has melted overnight , and I can see under it the foothills were always going green, the way they do every year, and soft, a green I can feel in the roof of my mouth like velvet, suddenly present. Except where the cliffs take their stands against erosion, looking for the moment constant. They cannot win. Even I can see, when I chance to be looking, how they shift, how they dust up and occasionally shake themselves off. ...