Heard a whippoorwill, out walking this morning
A morning like one at the beginning of the world
(only it’s the end of the world now, more likely)
Or maybe not a whippoorwill, I don’t know most birds.
I know I did see a flash of black and red on a bulrush 
(or maybe a cattail, I don’t know most plants)

But I know this pond, and the redwing blackbird, 
I know the melt of snow, the ice pocked and heaving, 
river water awakened and running beyond. 
I know these two geese, mates returned, watching,
riding the waves – and though I don’t see him, 
the beaver, I see the tree stumps he’s shaped 
sharpened like javelins, pointed like spears

I see the flint cheekbones of the earth
emerged from snow into sun, her soft breasts of moss,
Her skin of pine needles, her brown grass greening, 
in spots still wet, concealing fragrant mud.

A morning like one at the beginning of the world

The dawn shaking out like a blanket around us

I put my lips to the earth, I stretch myself full on her
Smoothed rocks, withered grass, smell of wet leaves in shade
I stretch my arms along her ridged bones, calling 
down the sun, calling up the warmth, 
Conducting her warmth and his, the sun’s, through me,
into my bones, heart to beating heart.

And palm to upturned palm

I forgive her. I forgive us both for who we were 
all winter.