a resolution of elementary semiotics regarding physiological response and responsibility

T makes me p.

Two related poems:

How a hawk sees his lunch flying over Millie Hill in September

Trees and sticks over

boulders and logs and shrubs

and a tittering chipmunk.

How that same chipmunk recognizes the advancing pall of the hawk and his own impending oblivion, and thereby avoids the clichés that accompany the last moments of many small rodents

Hark, a hawk. I guess I'm through.

Hello Gregor and Hello Charles

and goodbye to you, 

my dear sweet darling.

Where one can find that rascal and fiend Peder Swanson as he is trying to score after rolling drunks outside of C&R Bar:

Down in the hollers

hawking his dollars.

How Astral Weeks feels after a long walk in the Winter and your toes are still damp

Palate-like, a brass pin tongue 

resting in the groove,

taste: dense hysteric wisdom.

Glassy at Dawn

Walter says

his carbine is accurate

to over 300 yards but

I can't believe that old

tin scrapper is straight enough

To hit a turkey at thirty feet

though the road sign on HWY 95

That stretches through pumpkin

fields and cow pies says otherwise.

Ambrose's eyes

shiver when they meet mine

and I'm compelled to wave him

Back toward the canoes

and dust we made our trail

Of  but he can't roll his tongue

or sing in Spanish or skip   ever

Since he bumped his head falling

off the rooftop and I've stopped

Ambrose from

falling many times

since then but mostly into water

As we both have what our Paps

Walter calls trout fever   so

We sweat it out in a boat

on a cool June morning

With ducks and dusk falling

as we bob beside the quay.