Six Birds two crows at the side of the road pecking at something dead, bits of stringy gray flesh in the tips of their yellowed beaks: pecking, pecking, heads jabbing down striking, glass-eyes glistening in the sun an eagle in the forest, large and brown, drops seemingly from nowhere into nothing as we walk beneath the trees two geese the river slides before me, tiny smooth ripples, noiseless against the reeds and broken tree branches and thick black roots like tired snakes, still winter so no turtles or fish break the surface, only two geese standing stiff as statues, eyeing me and the quiet river too  an egret stands in the shallows of a pond, poised, elegant, focused, his long beak snapping suddenly like a whip into the water, stabbing at a plump, brown tadpole, but misses, his beady eyes stare into the dark water, incredulous, and, if I didn’t know better, a little embarrassed about it too

Six Birds

two crows

at the side of the road pecking at something dead, bits of stringy gray flesh in the tips of their yellowed beaks: pecking, pecking, heads jabbing down striking, glass-eyes glistening in the sun

an eagle

in the forest, large and brown, drops seemingly from nowhere into nothing as we walk beneath the trees

two geese

the river slides before me, tiny smooth ripples, noiseless against the reeds and broken tree branches and thick black roots like tired snakes, still winter so no turtles or fish break the surface, only two geese standing stiff as statues, eyeing me and the quiet river too

an egret
stands in the shallows of a pond, poised, elegant, focused, his long beak snapping suddenly like a whip into the water, stabbing at a plump, brown tadpole, but misses, his beady eyes stare into the dark water, incredulous, and, if I didn’t know better, a little embarrassed about it too

two poems by Michael Estabrook

My Grandfather Haunts Me

there he is

squatted down on his

haunches,

smoking cigarette

between his fingers,

dripping ashes.

that serene smile.

his brown leather loafers

falling apart,

his paint bespattered pants.

he’s taking a

rest from putting

the new linoleum down

over the

old linoleum on the

bungalow kitchen floor.

“why don’t you take

Guy for a walk

in the field over yonder,”

he motions with his hand.

“just be careful

not to step

on the glass from broken

bottles, and

the rusty nails.”