Lately, I’ve been moved by too many things that move:

the chainsaw that cut the towering tree.

It fell to the ground in a struggle; layers of brilliant fall leaves like grown-out

hair put to rest.

I liked that tree.

 

And the field just north of our house.

Once it was a place to run—the golden grass of any season, really, meeting

my hips like brushing hands.

You can let it all go here, the speaking hands would say.

And there now, the Eiffel point of an oil rig is a baritone hum at night. Constant

and constantly lit.

I liked that field.

 

Even the backyard snakes who’ve met an untimely death

and the mice and wasps and spiders; each symmetric stripe and incisive

pointed ear; each delicate, specific detail formed flawless and inimitable.

The flowers.

 

And the doves who dive before the cars, and the raccoons and cats, and the

grasshoppers we never see, but beseige the feathergrass and winter wheat,

flitting for brief seconds in the air before they can’t.

I’ve loved them all.

 

But with greater force still,

I’ve discovered that I will love them again.