she wiped away some dirt and took a bite

set out by day, set out with water
full to the lip, you could say, the

old metal oil pan awaits visits
of finch, chickadee and an occasional

cat–but what, overnight, drains it so–
for three mornings in a row, a slight

swirl of ice left, a signature of what’s
unlappable, as if the local coyotes or

fox have found this watering to their
taste on their nightly rounds–there’s

a need to nail this down, solve the
ghost, frame a picture of what happens

when happening goes unseen, un-
noticed–right now clouds churn sun-

rise grays and creams into beehives
of lightly living above the earth,

there’s so much give and take it
becomes and is becoming–the

unlappable, unstoppable overwintering
(now that Winter drags her finger

down your back) as small trees
watch what’s dragged from the woods

unplug this will you for there’s time

unplug this will you for there’s time
yet and such small faces working
with delight that what makes this
time a time of delight has nothing
to do with the current level of this
or the going rate of that—inebriate
of voltage, i’m dilly-dallying amidst
screens of forecast or frenzy—

do we hand over our better selves
for entertainment and if entertained

what opens in us, for shouldn’t we
open—the pigeon at the bus stop
did what most pigeons do on such
a day, turned each little something
over, dibbled with each dabble,
poked in earnest interest and in
that got something once or twice—
what gleaning grows honest?