her journey north
she tells me of swallows
building mud nests

March wind —
all the ducks at one end
of the pond

spring dusk
his phone call to tell me
he won’t get well

The year’s first turtle
       slowing . . .
            still slowing

turtle’s back
covered with pollen
this new pen

thoughts of her still —
a wasp nest dangles
from an old maple

desert wash . . .
from nowhere a frog
and the first faint stars

apple blossoms
my breathing
has been shallow

Inspecting rose leaves
for aphids in the way
I now read

wading egret
I try to walk
a little slower