The Dogwood Tree

Mown once at midsummer, the field

has taken months to recover

its half-wild hodge-podge of color-

the shades now of early fall.

From the window, she can guess at

what grows there. The purple must

be joe-pye weed, the yellow tufts

would be goldenrod. That red

bush is a blueberry, that blue

spire a cedar. She hasn't

been moved to walk down there all year-

among the briars and broken

stalks-to find the small lives distance

obscures. But in the center

of the field there's a dogwood tree,

as straight and perfectly round

as a child would draw it. The leaves

have gone red, and the berries,

past ripe, are now wine. She can tell

by the birds. A whole flock of

something black-grackles or starlings-

has descended to feast on

the fruit. It happens every year.

And every year the birds fall,

drunken from the hidden branches,

easy-almost willing prey.

This year she would like to touch one,

open its vulnerable

wings in her hands, feel its talons,

its fear, the glare of its black,

yellow-rimmed eye. And she would like

to return the bird unharmed

to the ground where it fell, reeling,

close to what she might call joy.