by bo sacker
Infrequent April sun comes to warm molten snows
in moose wallows where the luminescent beetles dance
indecent pirouettes. The marshy meadow glows,
from fertile bugs, skirts upraised, begging for romance,
rushed by impending death, to couplings conjugate.
Drowned larch skeletons protrude from the mossy muck,
proud sentinels where peregrine falcons wait
for the first courageous new hatched wood duck
eagerly fleeing his calcium cocoon, with callow zeal.
The hatchlings reach their niche on Lifeâ€™s food chain,
while civilization asserts itself with noisy squeal
on stretched iron rails that sing beneath my passing train.