Flight of the March Hare

Image borrowed from Bing


Flight of the March Hare

Late morning, after a large breakfast at Dixie’s,
I piloted silver Zuke zig-zag along
the diary farm roads, enjoying
the sun breaks and the Mozart--
crossing the wide concrete bridge
sprawled across the Puyallup,
waving at a work crew sitting there
in the low grass beside their state truck,
orange vests and orange hard hats
bright on their bodies as they
snacked from their metal lunch buckets.

I glanced quickly at the river, high from
the recent snow melt, just as I heard
my name, once, softly, a wet whisper;
stopping, I rolled down my window
and listened--there it was again,
further off, fading into the distance,
as if a falcon was winging south
carrying a rabbit in its talons,
a hare that happened to know me.

I swung my SUV around and parked
in front of the locked gate, open
on both sides for walkers.
This was my bend in the river.
I knew the drill.
Grabbing my wooden cane
I moved boldly toward the babble.

The farm road was still damp
from last night’s shower.
I followed the tracks of a large dog
trotting alongside his master’s boot prints.
River did not greet me, it seemed busy
churning and swirling, wetting its whistle.
A tall ancient alder had fallen, landing hard,
breaking itself up into several large chunks,
its fresh edges jagged, piled up like cord wood.

Spring was evident and early as
the scrub oak fanned out its
brilliant white blossoms
like an albino peacock, surrounded
by pale green leaf shoots
on the sturdy vine maple.
All about me the towering alders
were asp-rout, but today they
still stood like a line of naked old men.

Fifty yards from me, near the end
of the bend, I heard a low grunt-growl
and out of the deep blackberry thicket
burst a black badger, crossing the road,
not seeing me as it waddled into
the spinally foliage on the other side.

The bird serenade was sporadic,
punctuated by a busy woodpecker
tapping bark up high, keeping
a steady calypso beat as a small
plane with red wings and tail
flew low over the field.

My shadow grew shorter
as I walked back.
“Do you see?”
river inquired,
“Spring almost here, so close;
my shores are near to bursting with buds,
humming with new life, impatient
to embrace the sun.”

“Yes, I see, and I will return soon
to behold your blossoms.”

Glenn Buttkus

March 2011

Would you like to hear the Author read this poem to you?