Understand, I am always wandering,
looking for autumn’s gold
among February’s shades of brown. Skirting
the northern boundary line

passing a “No Trespassing” sign,
(hunting permit required) I transgress
following coyotes, deer and owls,
through spindly Ash and Oaks to a meadow

littered with animal scat-sun-baked white-
and I, too, in the absence of the park
feel my pressure releasing. Our neighbor, Chet
fired his last shot here last year. He rang our doorbell

at nine-thirty and handed my father his gun.
He fired at two Canadian geese, killing
one; the other bellowed like a heron,
melodiously defended the corpse,

scaring Chet away. Now he’s an advocate
for waterfowl, and later said geese
love the way we understand a river:
its shape, volume, currents, siltation, and

tributaries. On the way home beyond
the rust and moss of Linnton, I wonder
if geese are entitled to love.
A man on the shoulder of Highway 30

climbs a step ladder
and nails a bouquet of flowers to
a utility pole leaning West,
like an hour hand pointing at two.