Articles Available Online

after Edward Hirsch   Some mornings when  he wakes, after sleep       sleep has wounded him   into wildness, he smiles      saying, “Let’s not talk about any of it        or climate change or non-native species and just…      turkeys in snow…”   the morning so quiet he could      hear their quirtle and chirr while they scratched, their ridiculous        beards nearly kissing the snow, feathers distinguishing      what is bird and not,   much the way I imagine      Jeoffry and Zooey or even my own well-loved cat        will speculate his way into dark corners trusting      his whiskers will know   his reach, what he      may safely return from—the slim difference between nearly   through and not His toes      cringe at the carpet’s edge before the sea of green        tile, cracked like old anger, brittle as shell after twenty years      of shame, but the turkeys   and beyond them      mallards and swans No Snow geese, mergansers