“Nothing in nature says no” 
-C. Wright, “Buffalo Yoga”

(aboard an August train, 2019)

 Waiting to agree

Onward we slip, twisting 
around road blocks and shuffling 
stones, along paths laid out for us 
and those freshly blazed. Onward.
Bite-marks left by sloughed-off 
rock-edges gnash 
as the mangled mountainside —
flush up against the north-south route cut 
into these midway Adirondacks — 
crumbles further under our rumbling,
unseen like a heart murmur;
like a blade of grass slowly pushing 
up into daybreak and sliding 
against his brothers, sharpening. 
Unnoticed, roughly, til 
the buildup buckles and beckons us 
under its weight, tumbling 
toward a new place to settle. 

Heron stands guard 
over his marshy meal, unknowing 
on what scraps or feast he’ll feed, 
all else unseen. No gnat, nor summer-fly
distracts his station,
the inky reflections of his 
August-night eye seeking 
some fin-glimmer beneath.
Hungry for the richness of the shallows 
— or maybe just the warmth —
some slippery swimmer will 
undoubtedly slide between 
the feathery sentinel’s bill
unknowing of the betrayal
committed by his own skin.

A congregation at the beavers’ dam:
at least three forms of predator,
long-beaked and yammering 
over untold prey. The feathers 
clinging to the curvature 
of an egret’s spine — like footpaths 
through the woods or railways 
across mountains; like the wakes 
left by mallards, criss-crossing 
the mid-summer algae; like high grasses 
in the glade — stretch and slide 
around themselves, plates shifting 
gently, making space and waiting, 
waiting to agree.