I went out for a walk yesterday and was presented with a riot of green, red-pink, purple, blue and white. A few times, my wife and I walked though a thick fog of honeysuckle scent. I was reminded of a poem I wrote a number of years ago. It was originally published in Rock & Sling journal which is edited by my good friend Thom Caraway, the former Poet Laureate of Spokane, Washington.
In Defense of the Earth’s Capacity for Production
The scent of a bull-moose carcass might draw in a bear
from twenty miles, even upwind.
Wolves and opossums and skunks will binge
while vultures and eagles wait their turn in the air
or in the trees, the angular beaks designed to slide under ribs.
Beetles and flies arrive and if their tiny mouths were capable
of forming the words they might, half-drunk on moose blood,
sing the praises of a world capable of such making
What Work Is 