When the Woodpecker Knocks
Even the young dogs answer when
the woodpecker knocks, tapping
at the rough doors of aspen
and curling shutters of birch. We watch
in sepia, tails up, breathless
to be fern deep in the answering dapple
and they do.
Like the old dog still dreaming on the floor
of quick white rabbits
and lithe swamps, an unseen bud quivers, chasing
the undeniable flash of light
and touches it.
Meanwhile, the woodpecker slides along its ribbon
of air, moss-thick with snipe-spool
and mud-hum, asking.
Even the saw whet owl, riveted
by song, pauses
in the green answer of trees.
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