Alan: After 31 years in our little house by the bay, the past two winters we’ve had to spend in whole or in part in another town, in a place with easier accommodations. April marks the season of return, for the woodcock and for us.
Whiting, Early February
could the sound
of water dripping
into your morning
for an instant
like a winged seed
Nancy: Days recalled at night, where sharp edges disappear.
Where the atoms are free in their movement –
gray, white, invisible –
we call it air.
I breathe it in; it becomes my boundary,
I breathe it out,
and it becomes the edge of the goshawk;
it becomes that which fills the snow,
the footprints of the vole, the place where
air wing edge bird
becomes air wing edge snow.
The fur is dark, the blood red,
a few spots on the snow;
the gray white bird has flown
and the air, invisible, becomes
my boundary, inside, outside.