What is it you observe? Maybe traffic
because you are in your car so often
it’s an extension of self, a familiar
surround, while you keep an eye on
the blue Subaru creeping up on your
right and you know the light will change
at about the time that rental truck
reaches it, so you move into the left
lane. But what do you notice, beyond
what must be noticed? Do you register
a wedge of geese struggling against
headwinds or a paper wasp nest in a
poplar’s bare bough? What about
those small events in the cosmos
beneath notice? You notice them.
Not on the screens which scream look look
but through your eyes: plastic bag, empty,
pirouettes across a lawn, and you don’t
know who lives in that house but likely
they have children—swing, slide, tricycles.
And here, streets littered with walnuts,
the black walnuts of your childhood, so
that now what you observe is yourself
in recall mode and thinking of a winter
many years ago, the only time in your life
you ever saw a snowy owl in the wild—
the shock of admiration that pushed out-
ward from your chest cavity, outward
and into the wholly brilliant world
where you walked, trying not to twist
an ankle, on the bitter shells of walnuts.
Ann E. Michael resides in PA’s Lehigh Valley. Her previous books include Water-Rites and The Capable Heart. Her forthcoming chapbook, Barefoot Girls, will appear early in 2020 from Prolific Press. Website & blog: www.annemichael.wordpress.com