In Spring, the Cedar Waxwings
Often, when I travel to auctions
or haul cattle to market,
my wife stays home to paint
or write the grandkids, water
cardinals and jays and in spring,
the cedar waxwings. Every day's a gift,
even at our age. Even a day's too long
to be away. I miss the crinkle of her lips,
the flecks of silver of her hair.
Life is grass, stunningly brief,
but abundant in so many ways.
Only yesterday, I told a friend
I'm gonna marry that girl.
Suddenly, eight grandkids later,
I still don't see how a man could be
this lucky, although the moon is up
and rushing. Something is always
prowling around at night
coyotes, rattlesnakes, owls.
We like to sit outside and rock
in darkness, even though we're out there
where it happens. We listen
to the splash and battle of bass
in the lake, the squeal of a mouse
when an owl grabs it and flaps away.
The Rockies, Tooth and Claw
What God Felt Like when I was Twelve
Hiking Grizzly Country with Bells