Report from the Front
Everything tumbles together, syringa
in bloom, sweet clover on the air,
the earth’s breath between showers,
bitterns poised to strike unwary fish
who abandon their granite posts
with staccato QUAWKQuawkquawks!
when I come too close;
muskrat who ignores me
as she parts the water with her nose,
twigs for her den in her teeth;
and hissing snapper with jaws
even death respects
who slides into tall grass
that trembles at his passage.
Not far from this suburban edge
semis from Quebec roll by
with cargoes of furs, blocks of ice,
cedar sprays, antlers, Eskimo songs
and shrieks of children from farthest north
where they fence small squares of sky
from wilderness and polar bears. I want
to link all these in a causal chain,
as though I am he who knows, weighs,
values, names—
but only this moment by moment teeming
answers my hunger for sense.