Halfway North

Perhaps the news alit for just a second –

tiny talons rest on a bough in the lovely dark pines,

the branch barely dipping, the chickadee no heavier

than your cigar;

did you forget it anon, or did the bomb of it drop to the earth

leaving its song in the air

before you even realized it meant you were dying

maybe just a little faster than the rest of us?

(nevermind lightning strikes car crashes bullets riptides plagues whiskey)

Your way is okay. No, maybe it’s even beautiful –

the way you see the oily-coated stranger in black

coming toward you in the road

whistling and swinging his scythe.

You, though, you are who you’ve always been,

and so you say to the stranger, coming closer and closer:

“You been out cutting weeds? Wisconsin! We love it here!”

Especially during a blizzard and bitter cold,

or the woods alive with steam and the buzz of mosquitoes – you are

always making a joke, a connection, an offering –

“Bud Light? Manhattan? Coke?”

or if the stranger is lucky enough to be a dog, maybe

a fuzzy treat from your pocket.

So long as you can see us from where you stand,

you are not afraid of anything in this world, and not the next:

not birds carrying futures heavier than they,

not the unknown dark, gathering forces around or within you.

Certainly not not strangers with sharp edges

and itineraries they won’t share.

What does it matter to you?

You’re alive in this world.

Birds and strangers

come and go.