OMENS
Spring is the best-these dark and pre-dawn walks
I take with my dogs. Squawks, whistles, and toots
announce the chat while the towhee
drinks its tea. Frogs sing, quiet as we pass them,
then pick up again. Some months, the moon surprises me
with my shadow, it is then I look up.
That last morning, there were no signs.
That afternoon, red hay-twine with orange
surveyor tape hung across the road.
Keep Out signs were tacked to the trees.
Next morning, I ducked under the tape. Just
enough light and breeze to see the flags on the shrubs.
And the spiders’ webbed cups collect the dew,
do they drink from the strands.
I didn’t hear the brush axe slice the slender
pine trunk spear-point sharp. Or the bulldozer
tread grinding the gravel that leads to the electric
line easement. Even though I didn’t see it,
I know the operator powered up and lowered
the bucket; the earth lay scraped and raw.
One morning, I startled: something guarded
the road’s entrance. Silly me, the For Sale sign.
The bulldozer is gone now, another For Sale sign
posted at the entrance of the woods. Birds
still sing on territory. Most of the trees still
stand. When they fall, I won’t hear them,
but I know the trunk will crack, the crown begin
to lean then fall with a swoosh and a thump.
Just as they did when the land was cleared for my house.
riverSedge
