—Camp Friedenswald
Cassopolis, Michigan, 2025
The grassy labyrinth—
my sole mantra is no ticks.
I find only one.
The cottonwood’s trunk:
a thousand little canyons,
none of them on fire.
Without my phone
the only bird I know
is the woodpecker.
What’s gone wrong
in the world since I left?
Nothing I can fix.
Birdly commotion
behind me—I can’t tell
who won or who lost.
Splash, whoo! and laughter—
early swimmers.
Cottonwood leaves change
their minds with every breeze.
No—adjust.
A few brown leaves,
like kids who get measles because
their parents have Beliefs.
By now my grandkids
mostly crave fuel and a loud
boat to pull them.
Rabbit mumbles up,
just ten feet away, one ear split,
eyes big black marbles.
Twenty rich houses
around the shore, easy
to ignore from here.
I sink into the moment
for a moment. Then finish
my coffee for the third time.
The lesson of wood:
you don’t have to be alive
to be useful.
I use what others
invented, made, learned,
every moment, every day.
After I sit awhile
the swift returns to perch
on the back side of the swing.
Oh little bird on
the dead tree, I see only
your shadow, your outline.
Eastern kingbird or
tree swallow? If my eyes were
better I would know.
All this—the wild stream
of stars gathered and spun,
knitted and woven,
laced into these forms
astonishing and useful and
what then shall we do?
