Water fowl are returning, I reassure myself
as I watch another heron descend
from over the apartment buildings,
as I guide my can on his harness onto the stoop.
I try not to think of the duo
who swept over my partner and I
as a family pet was put down.
It’s a good thing, not an omen.
don’t appropriate native culture
nor give in to superstitions.
Don’t think of your aunt and uncle
being gone six months later.
It’s good to live in the moment
and watch the large bird transition
from creek to river.
It’s good that the water fowl are returning.
Now a white egret stalks the Walkill
distantly on my mind.
Why not? The bald eagles have returned,
so now will the herons and egrets.
It will all be fine

---

I’m driving through a hometown
I refused, past a school I always eyed.
Eyes on the road, present but
mind still lingering in the past
I suddenly see it.
It’s unbelievable and moves fast.
Obediently I follow the road and speed limit
as I curse fervently as I
drive to the library, clenching the wheel.
To see it, to know I saw an albino squirrel.
Holy shit, I scream. What are the odds?
Never heard of it before, but why not?
That’s how biology works.
The A.I. response says its one in a hundred thousand.
A hundred thousand sounds like a miracle.
to be born and grown outstanding.
But over time, as I continue to return books,
to catch another look, another truth hits.
If I found it once, how many predators noticed it since?

---

Social media was the day’s rabbit hole,
I groused wearily staring at brown shapes.
Dusk growing the spots begin to move,
small at first then growing with dashes.
I whip my glasses on to confirm my hope.
Yes, it’s two rabbits doing… what?
I watch avidly as they run and jump.
dancing over and around each other with exuberance.
“Is that a binky?” I race outdoors,
trying to spy on the duo.
But they are too far, and the home feral follows.
“You stay here.” I command, but I stop too.
I watch as much as I can till I go
back indoors, back to my phone.
A dancing duet is not too far off.
It’s a duet of hearts as my own soars
in delight in the synchronicity.
Rabbits have a mating dance
in a way I only imagined in fairy tales
that I would read alone at dusk.

---

My joints stagger as I approach the edge of Jew’s Creek,
waiting for my descent into madness or whimsy
to finally hit me on my hike.
Instead I’m stirred by flies and mosquitos,
wasting precious time outdoors to escape my mind.
He subverts all expectations that
I barely remember the encounter a month later.
For the beaver is too busy for signs or musings.
He’s out of sight because that’s how he eats.
His den is hidden till walls are built.
I cannot follow nor anticipate him
for he leaves no trail, not even a wake.
I ran ahead to watch his progress to realize
I became a predator out of sheer desire.
Dragonflies and katydids remain, plops
occasionally from a rare fish or toad.
Maybe I even catch a shadow of a turtle.
But I never catch another glimpse of the beaver.
Sore that my ego grew cocky and mind too wild with fantasy,
I return to my original plan: to sit
with a small moleskin notebook to meditate
and build my own craft word by word,
like he would log by log.