Hush, Brush, Shush.
Hawks circle and call, catching our glimpse.
Distant Labrador calls, catching our scent.
Owl calls, joining the fray.
The hawks are too close.
Nests sit stark, overexposed in the barren hickories and sweetgums,
But trillium, violet and clover peak up
Through the dried, fallen leaves.
Sunlight springs, like a beacon, beyond the thinned woods,
Where pines lie snapped at the mid drift,
One upon the other,
Ripped at the roots,
Toppled by Earth’s raging storms.
– Laura Mauney, February 2017