The
Chicken Dance
Rudy
the red rooster
toots
his trumpet
to
wake us at dawn
and
at noon leads
his
ten hefty hens
across
our green lawn,
feathers
fluffing and flouncing,
beaks
cackling and clucking
to
the rhythmic snoring
of
the feral feline
full
of Fancy Feast
snoozing
on the sofa
in
our sun porch
while
we watch
through
the window
as
we lunch on tuna salad
sandwiches
and iced tea.
Crow’s
Feet
Through
the bedroom
window
glass I watch
wrinkled
feet with onyx
painted
toenails two step
across
the sill, hear cawing
and
a flutter off wings
and
blink at a black blur.
As
I sleep, I dream Mr. Crow
is
tap dancing across the floor
of
my face like Fred Astaire
barefoot
in black coattails
and
in the morning
I
look in the mirror and find
the
proof – his footprints
in
the corner of each eye.
Watching
the Neighbours
I
used to say when I grew old
I
would never be like my mother
and
stand at the window
with
binoculars and give
a
play-by-play account
of
what the neighbours
are
doing, but here I am
running
to the kitchen
window
and watching
the
Palomino and Appaloosa
eating
hay, tails swatting flies,
the
black and white cow
patiently
nursing her calf,
still
wet and wobbly,
as
the crows caw
and
the white tail deer
dance
like ballerinas
waiting
for their turn
to
get a swig of water
and
repeating every detail
to
my husband
as
he sips coffee
and
birdsong plays
in
the background.
Family
Tree
I like to think I am a Mcintosh
surviving the frost, ripe
and red, ripped from a branch
in the March wind in Montana
with a tough skin and tender
flesh like the many apples
before me. Or a prickly pine
cone dropping to the bare
ground from the tall tree,
keeping my seeds safe
from the cold and predators,
releasing them in a sizzling summer
to procreate and protect.
Or a green leaf from a strong oak
drifting like a dragonfly,
swift and agile as my ancestors.
Arizona
Monsoon
The
wind howls like a coyote
and
waves big as in the Pacific
slosh
and wash our windows.
In
the lightning flash and explosion
that
follows, we see the horses,
conditioned
by the deafening
sound
of jets and motorcycles,
huddling
in the corral, rain
washing
their hide and mane
as
the black sky opens and dumps
gallons
of water and the washes
run
like mountain streams.
Suddenly
it stops and all we hear
is
the barking of the dogs guarding
the
horses and imagine the feral cat
trembling
as it eats a mouse
in
our enclosed porch after jumping
over
the courtyard wall
and
slipping through the rip
in
the screen door before the storm.
.
When
the sun shines,
the
horses are eating hay,
the
dogs dry food and the cat
is
scarfing down table scraps.
The
desert is dry but green,
a
sign that a storm passed through
and
the thirsty ground got a drink.
Sharon Waller Knutson is a retired journalist and a widely published poet who lives in a wildlife habitat in Arizona. She has published ten poetry books including: What the Clairvoyant Doesn’t Say (Kelsay Books 2021,) Survivors, Saints and Sinners (Cyberwit 2022) and The Vultures are Circling (Cyberwit 2023.) Her poems have appeared most recently in ONE ART, Black Coffee Review, Verse-Virtual and Your daily Poem.
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