Morning Pages

Two broad-winged hawks

I spotted and tried to identify

in the green bird book,

perched in the dead branches

of the maple

nearly out of sight,

just at the edge of the field,

absorbing the heat of the morning,

just at the edge of this summer.

The grey squirrel's

staccato movements below

were just what the menu required.

Heads turned deliberately,

knowingly not giving away 

their superior location.

It is slightly cool in the chair 

next to the desk

in the dim light.

The season has turned me

to the larger mug for my tea

and the warmer red robe

the children bought 

as an offering for my birthday

nearly twenty years ago.

From this perch

I can see the overgrown weeds

and cherry tomatoes dropping

in the diminishing garden;

the black-eyed Susans

drying on the stems

and fat marigolds

in all their puffed-up glory.

The clatter from the kitchen

and shuffle of old slippers

will not distract me

from these morning pages

while I watch twenty-five turkeys

gather, parade, and cluck 

content and oblivious 

to my admiration.