Construction Zone

After the Storm

Building a country cabin

I return after the big storm

as buzzards reluctantly flap away.

The creek has churned out half the driveway.

With shovel I move gravel, redirect water.

Hole in the bridge, can't fix today.

Posts, blown over.

While resetting the big pole

I smash my nose and here's a scary vision:

disabled, alone in the backwoods

as buzzards circle and descend.

Maybe I'm crazy to work solo,

child and pregnant wife at home.

A squirrel is scolding as if he knows.

"Hey, squirrel, there's work to do.

I do it." My voice seems feeble

in the forest of giants.

At the end of day, the destruction is half-

repaired. Score: Storm six, carpenter three.

Before the long drive south to the city

I climb the hill at twilight for

the magnificent view, valley shadows,

purple sky. I am not alone.

From somewhere unseen the sounds

of children echo like birdcalls from

wood and meadow through the country air.

A cawing crow. A thrush with a voice

like a gurgling brook. A ghostly dove

cooing, calling from home.