Up in the Hills

by Ray Greenblatt

they are listening,
in the growing season
the speckled light
is part of their covering . . .

in winter woods
they can see distances,
mist from their breathing
cloaks them . . .

their history has been a long one
hart, roe, hind . . 

Autumn Morning

by Ray Greenblatt

Marmalade moon
burns in mauve sky.
Cold frames filled
with gold Incan masks
as first sunlight fills trees.

Patterns

by Ray Greenblatt

Crows on swaying wires
rule the early morning.
A stroke of gulls
against distant woods
across the Great Elk River.
Clouds move up the river,
tide now ebbing.
Trees shuffle in place
and wave branches in rhythm.
From the north Boreas
is the unseen
music maestro.
Like a sub-atomic particle
one moth defies plotting.

Over the Lake

by Ray Greenblatt

Winds scour Marsh Creek Lake
and rip at stray stone walls
no longer knowing what
they kept out or in.
          Myth has it that fish
          lie on the bottom
          disguised as mud balls.
                   Trees have dropped all their
                   summer camouflage.

Four old crows each on
brittle tree branch
talk things over in
their raspy argot.
          Fox out of its den
          forages for short time
          before snowflakes whirl.
                    Tomorrow lake surface
                    might be walkable.

Along the Coast

 by Ray Greenblatt

No bewitching eyes of seals,
nor intoxicating dolphin songs
          here.
Instead etched inlets,
rounded promontories.
The beach is a shelf
offering unique products:
          kindling
          dead fish
          polished glass
          seaweed.
The sea paints the surf
          gold at dawn,
purple at dusk.
Coastal trees learn the shapes
          of local winds.

Crow Dead in a Field

by Ray Greenblatt

Crow on a fence
his eye a knothole,
spreading wings so black
they blend with tree branches above
that rise gracefully,
his observation static
as the length of fence itself.
Crow’s caw a nail down
a sheet of metal,
catching sifted light
his gray-blues of darkness
become parts of machinery,
          long rusting like crow's blood
          matting ruffled feathers.

In the Hills

by Ray Greenblatt

Leftover deer stand and stare.
In the hills we wear
high leather boots in case
we kick up copperheads
sleeping off winter.
A tribe of forsythia
gathers on a hillside.
On a fence crow crouches
like  a mail pouch,
vulture spreads wings
formidable as any eagle.
Sacrilegious: tire in a field.