by Wanda Morrow Clevenger
A night wind months before
frog thrum rock-a-byes baby,
carries on its breast
lost Jacob Marley.
And little else stirs this chill
but ruff and fluting.
For two decades an owl waits
with me for March tilt and
many weeks more before a crisp hoo
breaks within elm sequester. But
a mighty flotilla of green hummers
dogfight for nectar; dive bomb the cat
for fun; barnstorm dandelions
in broad strokes.
Athene hailed an owl in residence
a good luck omen;
one late autumn
I found a hummingbird nest
blown onto the road and keep this
talisman in a china tea cup.
Luck is lazy religion; a penny
picked off the ground. My allegiance
hails broader strokes.