Five Poems

Kathleen Gregg

Hooting Season

Two Great Horned Owls perch

on a bare black limb, silhouetted

against a purple and ochre sunset.

Some imperceptible signal travels

between them, and as one, they stretch

their white feathered throats,

let loose a series of eerie primal calls,

like the sound of wind howling

through a canyon. They vocalize

again and again. A mated pair, their

synchronized duet signals

territorial claim, lusty devotion.

Other owls hoot back, acknowledge

the message. And the forest echoes

echoes

echoes

She slumps on the couch, stares

out the sunroom windows

as the rain layers on leafy branches

and plumed grasses, sagging them down.

Monotonous sprawl of gray, so thick

sunrise looks like blood smeared

on opaque glass.

She used to love a rainy Saturday,

laziness without guilt, the two of them

drifting through old jazz albums,

the soothe of a steady downpour. How

her husband would curl her body

against his chest, kiss her hair, her lips. 

Defined muscle beneath a flannel shirt

that might wear last night’s cologne

and the salty scent of his skin.

She would sniff him like a cat.

Damn the disease

that was like raging floodwater,

too strong to fight, sweeping him

away. Her love is gripped

by that undercurrent, still. And still,

rain spills down the windowpanes.

Now, to her, the sound of goodbye.

Pecking Order

Blackbird has figured out how to climb the pole that dangles the birdfeeder, how to balance with wing flaps and claws dug into the mesh, how to tap his beak into one of the openings and eat his fill of black oil sunflower seeds. A few fellow blackbirds imitate their alpha’s acrobatics. Others scavenge for seeds ejected upon the ground. Iridescent feathers glisten in the morning sunshine. Idyllic. Then different birds swoop in, wait for their turn at breakfast. Blackbirds flap at, peck, shoo away cardinals, chickadees who have dared to land on Alpha’s birdfeeder. I think, Hey you, this is my birdfeeder. I run at them. Clap, shout, wave my arms. Watch them scatter onto treetops, internet lines, our roof. Hands on hips, I shriek, How does it feel, jerks? Waste of my energy. They flutter back, like a taunt, and resume their feast.

Heedless, determined,

they could be politicians.

Survival by greed.

Crystals of sunlight glimmer
the polished surface of the lake.
Its stillness lures her, like
the emptiness of a blank slate.
She writes with liquid longing, lines
of despair that get hooked and tangled

in the wreckage of betrayal. She slumps
at the shoreline, her sweater wadded
next to her. Warmth rejected. The cold
stings her bare arms. She pictures
her skin, white with frost, how the pain
will still flicker against the walls

of her heart, how only the lake
can douse her burning.

A Matter of Vision

I walk into the garage and detect

a squeak, a soft whirr–a hummingbird,

lured inside by the red silk kite draped

on one wall. Cornered in unfamiliar territory,

the bird lacks a blueprint for escape. 

Double doors are open to a breeze swirling

with the scent of flowers. The sky awaits.

Yet, this iridescent shimmer flaps

in a hopeless loop from nailed-up hula hoops

to the culpable kite and back again.

The farther inside I inch, the more frenzied

its flight. I murmur soothing words,

slink my way to the window and open it. 

The breeze is instantly sucked through

the garage and out: a clear exit. I tiptoe

outside, watch with relief as the bird

drops down into that blossom of air

and drinks its freedom.