Cy DILLON

FOR JIM, HUNTING

On the lower slopes
Dogwoods glow like cold bone
Redbuds add their insistence on color
But no heat
Above them poplars risk their foliage
Without thought, as if April never lied
While oaks leave almost nothing to the frost

Along the ridges and hollows
Each species accepts spring
According to its own nature

I sit on the damp ground
In clothes the color of leaves
Striking slate with a stick

Having known the same desire
That pulls the tom toward the call
And having lost a life or two that way myself
I can afford to be patient
We are not so different, after all

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