First leaves of trout lily
among the roots of a bare beech tree—
tender ears of little rabbits
rising from their winter grave.

*

Cut log by the side of the trail,
you have rested long enough
to gather a thick quilt of moss
pulled up to your knotted brow.

*

Canada geese, don’t you know what a menace
you are? Where are your immigration papers,
your green cards? Go ahead, honk
if you love those America-hating Democrats.

*

Sitting duck, I wouldn’t lay your eggs
on the path if I were you.
Unless you like them poached,
scrambled, over uneasy.

You can listen to a conversation about this poem on the Reformed Journal Podcast.

Photo by Patti Black on Unsplash