Alan: Hackmatack, tamarack, larch: after the maples, after the oaks and poplars and birches brown and fade, in the falling leaves of the hardwoods, the larches turn gold.
Our native hackmatack, maligned and weak,
hides, as if shamed, amid the summer’s rout
of trees more honored, though it will peep out
and nod to those who, passing, stop and seek.
Larch makes a quick, hot stovewood, not much more,
unless you count those tough old bended knees
that stiffened many a hull, through many a breeze,
that hailed from town and village round these shores,
but that purpose is done, or nearly so:
today, the careless woodsman knocks it down
to offer light to trees with broader crowns
and straighter stems, or simply lets it go.
Still, I have seen it cup the waxwing’s nest,
and now, as Fall fades, it burns last, and best.
Nancy: If wishes were feathers, you'd find me riding the updrafts at the cliff at Mill Cove.
If I Ruled The Air
Like the black one,
with his tilt and lift
with his parabolas
with his running down
and his wheeling whirling
If I ruled the air
I would never say, now
Raven, sit and watch. No.
I would call to the wind,
And I would call to Raven,
Now we can go together.
if only I ruled the air.