In an epoch of nightmares,
the walk to the lake,
transformed by mood and by moment,
planned as a journey with Jetta,
to proceed from Caracol
to La Ronda Parakata,
from Black Lives Matter,
the name and the point
of resistance and vision,
this time around,
to the fresh flow
of Ukrainian blood,
and the tears for democracies,
forever imperfect.
The redwing blackbirds are back
and begun to build their numbers,
though not yet reached
the this-is-ours claim
that will soon fully invest
blackbird central
in advance warning
of dive-bombing birds
headed this way.
On the way, the gray planter totems—
massive, ornamental contraptions,
bizarrely conceived as artful décor
for the concrete expanses
of breakwaters and piers—
have somehow been heaved,
grinding and fractured,
by the great lake in winter.
The pulverized fragments lay on the path,
like bits of Kyiv littering the world.
The caracol, Spanish for snail,
an escalera de caracol,
a spiral staircase pressed flat,
its broad painted surface,
splashed with color of cultures
and feelings gathered on borders
of habits badly in need of fresh vigor.
The phoenix of hope
for a future at risk,
depends largely on those
who can juggle their fear
and plan radical ways
for healing all wounds.
A barge makes its way
through ice jamming boat slips.
The watermen whisper to water
with words not meant for my ears,
but I do hear their murmurs
and do have the tools
to shape meanings that drive me
to where I and all this
are harnessed to go.
In the tufted tall grass
of the cold weather prairie
Jetta digs from the ice
the shredded remains
left behind by a hawk,
and swallows rotted morsels
before just a mile further on,
vomiting a bit back
to the field to share
with whomever will next eat
off this ground.
Over the rise
in the trail ahead
comes the form of La Ronda
where the butterflies pray
to slow our ill-fated rush.
The view this day is still water,
and the weather
waits to be called
to deliver trouble in surges
resembling the way
the dark ages looked
to those who could see
the future unfolding.
And justice continues denied.
And the blood keeps on spilling.
And pooling and drying and staining the world.
