Cedar Pass

Cedar Pass

Here, where absurd harp arpeggios plucked on
baby poplars scare younger dear, and winter
exposes nests, catching squirrels mid nut-crunch,
the last brave blue chrysalis wings on frozen wind.

Contrasting grays, poo-pooed by teenage purists,
offset sturdy dark brown leaves that hang on as
December chills bones, ground, clouds, equally.
Turkey buzzards pick at road kill, while mallards

float flute melodies on ponds overfull from fall’s
monsoon. Reynard twitches as his son-in-law
scrapes pebbles back onto Cedar Pass, a dirt road
older than its name, path to beavers, opossum, raccoons:

all cold today, until, somehow, the Schwa Stradivarius,
seventeen fourteen, ambles up, played by Itzhak Perlman,
carried Asian-style by four willing Rabbis, to this place
of peace, in time for one last concert surrounded by nature.

Copyright, Doug Stuber, 2006. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given, and with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.

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