Mystery

by Jan Wiezorek

Grasses like dried branches
this spring along the creek.

Green prints, eyes placed, 
small fists, lines drawn 

like vision or desire.
The grey turkeys get up

and fly fifteen or twenty
to the limbs, where 

they disappear.
Diminished speech,

alphabetic, to land 

on a hanging “Y”

or a sleeping “P.” 

Chasing the hillside 

with a voice—

muffled and heard

straight

from trees, 

falling bark, needles, 

rounding and rolling

to a natural 

carpet

of mystery.