Egret Ghost

by Wesley D. Sims
  
Near nightfall
a great egret
flaps in over
a copse of
hardwood trees,
takes up
station beside
dull green reeds,
now slivers
of shadow
on the pewter
colored lake.
Standing still
as a small statue,
as darkness
descends
he becomes
emblazoned
on blackness
of water
like a ghost
of egrets past.

Squirrel Selecting Bouquet

by Wesley D. Sims

A squirrel sits upright
on hind legs amid a patch
of lavender, lilies, and goldenrod
as though trying to select
a bouquet to pick and take home
to his out-of-sorts mate,
needing to make up
for his horrible habits
like hoarding the acorns,
leaving a mess of hulls
scattered around the house
and other irritable actions
constantly driving her nuts.

Guineas

by Wesley D. Sims

A knot of guineas swung
around the pasture
like a swirl of twigs
pinned to a rubber band,
picking grass seeds
and singing their squeaky
alto song of contentment
All-right, all right.

Spider Constellation

by Wesley D. Sims

A large gray spider
in an almost deserted
restroom at the campground
has spun a silky mural
of long legs and little
brown bodies,
strung up a constellation
of granddaddy long-legs,
their wire-thin legs splayed radially
outward like arms of a galaxy.
Their lights have gone out,
their carcasses kept
on cold storage in the spider’s
private mausoleum,
hidden in a corner
of little used web-space.

Swan Song

by Wesley D. Sims

A sparse chorus of crickets
telegraphs the news--autumn
arrives on the overnight train.
Forty-degree West wind
plucks brown leaves
from walnut and poplar.
Twilight sifts over the landscape,
dark clouds press a pale orange sky
into the horizon.

Cattle Egrets

by Wesley D. Sims

Late day in Fooshee Pass Cove
near smoothing water’s edge,
swarms of cattle egrets
round the point and curve past
the copse of hardwoods.
The bright, scribbly vees
veer up and cinch into
nightly flight paths
where the flocks bob and drop
in the fading air currents,
wobble up to skim hickory tree tops
as they wing their way
to roosting perches
on high limbs of tall pines.

Vulture Ritual

by Wesley D. Sims

Buzzards congregate at dusk,
blitz a large oak tree to roost
like a bagful of black clothespins.
Morning draws them out
to perch on fence posts
around a near pasture like a village
of totems, wings spread wide
as if some mysterious ritual.
The sunshine chases away
mites that plague them.

Boats at Sunrise

by Wesley D. Sims

First light unveils two empty
round-a-bout boats, nuzzling
the shore, tethered like horses
to their hitching posts,
sweet gum trees standing watch.
Fiberglass hulls sparkle
and glint as they bob and rock
in the low-slapping waves.
Shroud of fog cataracts the scene
light gray and velvety smooth,
the pale orange orb of sun
flashlights through the cove
to illuminate beginnings
of a new day on Watts Bar Lake,
and fresh possibilities
of the open water.

Sixteen Shades of Gray

by Wesley D. Sims

Daylight tiptoes in,
uncovers the silent cove
revealing a nuanced
morning scene,
sixteen shades of gray,
the silvery lake,
its satin smooth skin,
inviting someone
to break its sealed surface,
awaken to its sensuality,
tremble in its wet embrace.

Choreographed Buzzards

by Wesley D. Sims

Aerial acrobatic show—
wake of turkey buzzards surf
the blue ocean of wind,
black bodies glistening, their silver
wing tips splashed by sunshine.
Like practiced dancers transitioning
through routines, they cycle up the cove,
shifting, changing patterns, congregated
first in a circle, followed by momentary
square, then a trapezoid, now a Dipper
constellation, followed by a dotted spline
that torques and bends into a question
mark, as if to ask—what is this?

Training run for young buzzards?
Some vulture-peculiar ritual
practiced in mating season?
A random drifting, sniffing,
sailing excursion over the lake?
Maybe it’s just a Sunday afternoon
surfing flight, admiring the sites
and gawking at humans.

Osprey Fishing

by Wesley D. Sims

An osprey soars in circles migrating
up the cove, bright white underside
gleaming in the sun. It spies movement,
begins descending in a cone spiraling down
twenty yards until it clarifies the target,
draws in brown-barred wings and plunges
head down, accelerating as it dives.
Hits the water head first cratering plumes
outward, quickly pumps its wet wings
against the water to lift off straight up,
grasping a bass in its talons. It rises
fifty feet aiming toward the tree line.
Its reward wriggles, struggles to escape
the sharp claws as the osprey continues
its ascent and lights a high sycamore limb,
pinning its prey while it begins to dissect
the fresh meal with its curved eagle beak.