It is Quiet Out There Now
It is quiet out there now. SheTakes her hat, stick and forage bag,
Into which she slips her pruners, thenSlides her feet into green clogs, feeling
Quite exurban-agrarian, ready to lookUnder brush piles and into cottonwoods --In every place that might consent to harborEven a hint of birds' music. They have flown,The silence tells her; those that haven't died.
Out along the roadside she waves to cars,Understanding her neighbors have to drive,Then pockets up her apples, rose hips, leaves
That now are turning away from green: cat's ear,High mallow, chicory, plantain, sow thistle, herEars pricked for passing flights of geese.Really, thinks she to herself, there oughtEven now to be more birds. There are
Not so many feral cats round here as that. Or could it be the sprays? She supposesWar has been declared. A war on song.
Into which she slips her pruners, thenSlides her feet into green clogs, feeling
Quite exurban-agrarian, ready to lookUnder brush piles and into cottonwoods --In every place that might consent to harborEven a hint of birds' music. They have flown,The silence tells her; those that haven't died.
Out along the roadside she waves to cars,Understanding her neighbors have to drive,Then pockets up her apples, rose hips, leaves
That now are turning away from green: cat's ear,High mallow, chicory, plantain, sow thistle, herEars pricked for passing flights of geese.Really, thinks she to herself, there oughtEven now to be more birds. There are
Not so many feral cats round here as that. Or could it be the sprays? She supposesWar has been declared. A war on song.
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