On our morning walk,
two hawks,
each sweeping low
over the gravel road,
brown wings quiet
as they slide
between the trees.
The wild petunias are in bloom,
as delicate as wet paper,
fluted and purple
in impossible places
and parched brown ground.
We watch the raccoons
and their babies
make their morning rounds,
checking each spot in turn
for where there might be food.
They are both annoying
and impressive
in their persistent ingenuity
and determination.
On our evening walk
I find a small, black feather,
a smooth and shining oval
with a hint of flight left in it.
And, in a bright circle
of setting sunlight
we see a buck standing
in the road,
graceful antlers silhouetted
against the sky.
He slips swiftly away
between the blackberries
and ironweed
and almost as soon as he goes
the patch of sunlight fades away
as if it were only a dream.
There are stories in the land
and poems in the weeds.
There are dreams to uncover
and hopes to birth.
There are visions to hold
and heartsongs to sing.
There are prayers
to live into being.
