Mist Rising

I stomp back from the barn towards the house
attempting not to stoop with age and thoughts
that fool me into thinking I can find something,
anything, by looking down
my hands dry with the dust of chicken scratch and
my ankles, sore from excess.

In the pasture, above the plum trees,
sagging with full, white blossoms and wet, green grass
the sky, acting superior in its manner while
swallows soar in circles above my head.

I catch the morning light as it presses lightly
on their rusty orange chests
making them blaze like the fire that burns bright
beneath the kettle that awaits me.

The cup-shaped nest of a breeding pair
belongs to these same birds, is theirs for the taking,
the ones who return each spring
and fly with their babies for sport now.

I stomp back towards the house
consult with the cardinal-red climbers
extending their blossoms
as they make their voyage up the fence post,
seeking knowledge, too, of the morning sun
I aspire to reach beyond my grasp, as well,
following my first sip of tea.