Kelly Greene

molt

it’s June so it is not unexpected

that I find the first fallen

feather to start the molting season

‘til mid-October this will continue

about every fourteen days

each dove replaces one primary

feather as it becomes worn

a steady regime that keeps them able

for flight or migration when it’s time

I’ve learned to look for the buffy white tips

on the few feathers the wind lets me find

wouldn’t it be salubrious

if people embraced such bracing

regularity to replace

a pose or opinion that’s worn

but then a well-worn find

it’s July and a scatter of feathers lay

from a dove carried off

by an ever-circling hawk

I don’t need to learn what’s next 

doves are at the feeder and another

feather on the ground sports buffy white tips

Pivot

A single petal

of the rose in the vase

drops to the table,

swift and humorless

as the blade of a guillotine,

slicing the cord of a second

that fastens past to present.

It sticks the landing

the way a cat pretends

the fall from the mantle

was pre-ordained,

and releases the breath

we do not know we hold

in reverence of 

unsustainable beauty.

Rose petals huddle

in chaotic clusters

as if to share their secrets.

Among those holding on

they sort their staggered departures.

For the rose and the watcher

ticking time asserts itself,

indefinite but finite,

as for children at first

detachment of family or friend.

The final tilting petals,

flush with crinkled color,

display the fervent aspect

of indignant elders

speaking tales of blasphemy

or the wisdom that loss imparts

Sleight-of-Wing Artist

Arctic terns

are exhausting to watch

as they shadow box invisible sparring

partners—the buffeting winds

above the Alsek River.

They slip and slide,

find a seam in the air

and squirt through,

tilt, and sometimes

flap like a flag of surrender.

Arctic terns

with slender white body

and bandit’s black cap

pulled below the eyes,

heist attire to nab small fish

darting in the whitewater below.

They fly from pole to pole and back each year

paying homage to glaciers,

the farthest journey for any bird;

can also stand still in the air,

deeply forked tail 

pinning the sky.

Arctic terns

may appear distressed,

with awkward swipes by elongated wings,

but that is an illusion.

Limp as a scarf in the battering wind,

they can relax

and let go

and fall,

then use jujitsu on the gusts

to soar, swoop and glide.

They’re like us, aren’t they?

Eyes on fast moving goals

while absorbing blows from shifting currents.

But they’re different, too, aren’t they?

Nimbly accepting and never discouraged.