Wind Shear

Under the magnolia, a winter-starved hare stills

and pretends it is not there,

and wanting less of fearfulness

I pretend that I do not see my camouflage, the wild promises

in my gaze, and step carefully by.

Morning, bitter morning—

lack and awful patience wait at every compass point.

Mourning, mournful, the prairie seals wind-scored stems with snow.

Here inside a stalk of goldenrod

a gall wasp will ride hard winter out.

Here between my ribs, wasps of lonely, wasps of

not yet, not yet wait and ride hard winter out.

Such a slow season, laggard and mean.

I can’t explain the cardinals I’ve seen of late,

but the crows’ black fists, the way they bully

eave and air, stab the morning with the sharpest awe,

I understand it now. I see the reason and agree.