Tangled
We found the finch,
eyes clear but wings
limp as string,
its spindly feet
twisted in wire.
Untangling toes,
you were quick to stroke
ruffed feathers;
then you hung back:
the small body
fluttered to the oak.
You wear your fatigue
like feathers; I stretch
out my hand; your feet
lock in to what snares
you even more.
With your every twist
my heart is pierced
with barbs.
Thunder
Thunder rolls through the mountains,
sputtering, rumbling;
we never know when lightning
will swirl through the bones of trees,
make of a branch a candle,
a roaring beast.
Thunder clouds come quickly, sparse warning,
soak the ground,
or sometimes a dry thunder
clears its throat, swears.
We listen — that’s all we can do
and ready ourselves with water
to douse the flames.