Reading Spring
JOHN CULLEN
My wife trips to avoid a fuzzy bear.
Red and black bands forecast
weather, and country music
on her phone. It’s my sister
noting the flare of grass
outside her house, likely the product
of over-fertilization. Everyone wants more
light and longer shadows, even
if it means ignoring mud.
Galaxies of starlings rush spring
and strip feeders to the bone.
Our retriever gummed a robin’s wing
this morning. Across the road,
my neighbor’s kids ride their first
two-wheelers, arms shaking
like jello, eyes believing
in control. They wobble along
the driveway, veer into the gravel
road and trace a lazy circle.
A few banties scratch dance
in the yard for grit, and mail
brings next month’s bills
and a flier advertising
pet diapers for indoor hens.
Now the snow’s gone
two deer carcasses embrace
just off the road, scraped
together by the plow, bones
like twisted sheet music.
Later, we will drag them
back into the woods
where my neighbor believes
they belong.
John Cullen‘s work has appeared recently in American Journal of Poetry and North Dakota Quarterly.