Glory
Nov. 6, 2024

So, desolate, we determined,
	When the noon sun 
Burned away the morning fog,
To pack a picnic lunch 
	And seek solace in nature
At a nearby refuge,
Immersed in solitude
		In harsh autumn light,
	Glittering surface of pintail marsh,
A thousand geese take flight as one
	A cacophonous honking roar,
Dozens of swans and hundreds of ducks
		Unperturbed by the ruckus, 
Continue preening and dabbling,
Harrier hawks prowling the fields,
	A half-dozen bald eagles
		Sullenly surveilling the ponds below,
	From barren cottonwoods
		And poles along the railroad tracks
Stretched out across the lowland.

We ate our sandwiches peering through binoculars,
	Finding, in the natural world, things
Greater than our own concerns,
	More timeless than ourselves, our malignant presence 
		Amidst the wreckage we exact.
			Continuing, unabated.

A few of the now-scattered geese drift back
	To the marsh in ragged formation.
A box turtle basks on a downed black branch
	Jutting from the surface.
Ringnecks and pintails feeding, 
White swans preening on the shore
	Strike sculptural forms, bent necks and spread wings,
And sun sinks down toward the coastal range, 
Mary’s Peak obscured in mountain mist behind us.