Encountering a neighbor

Hi everyone,

As I walked out of our garage for the paper this morning, I nearly collided with a skunk (not the one pictured but one just like it). It was emerging from a hedge that grows along the front of our house. Its fur was fluffed out for protection against the bitter morning. It was as surprised to see me as I was to see it.

We stopped. From a distance of three feet, we each made a quick assessment. The skunk didn’t seem agitated so I continued the way I was headed, walking slowly toward the paper. The animal was gone when I retraced my steps a minute or two later. The garage door was up, the lights were on, and it was warmer in there. Could the skunk have gone inside? Seeing and smelling no sign of a visitor, I closed the garage door and made my way back into the kitchen. Just another encounter with a citizen of Goose Lake. Another memory.

A second poem from GOOSE LAKE

Hi everyone,

When I went out for the paper, I smelled skunk in the air, which reminded me of another poem from GOOSE LAKE. Here’s another page from my one and only Amazon book, 2011. The illustration is by SLADJANA VASIC.

The lake behind our house entertains me. In, around, and above the water a cast of swimmers, flyers, hoppers, chirpers, croakers, honkers, quackers, and hissers comes and goes, lives or dies, eats or is eaten, each a valuable member of the lake’s community.
If only you could be here to share my binoculars when I look out my kitchen window or lounge beside the water at dusk. There are so many sights I would love to show you! Since you cannot join me in person, I’ll do the next best thing. I’ll bring Goose Lake to you. 

Sometimes skunks cross our yard
when it’s too dark to see black fur.
Their white bands jiggling up and down
seem to glow like skeleton bones
out to trick or treat.

This summer we saw
a mother of seven
doing her best to keep her kids
from wrestling in the street.

I wonder how many
passed their babyhood lessons,
advanced to mischievous youngsters
who may, as I sit here sniffing the air,
be target practicing
at a horrified
neighborhood cat.

(c) 2011 David L. Harrison, all rights reserved

Waiting it out

Hi everyone,

As the nation reels from tragedy on tragedy caused by the storms, Goose Lake maintains a cold, silent vigil. We join others in mourning the loss of lives, the hardships, disrupted schedules. Our hearts are with you as we all wish for a warming trend that will help return us all toward normal.

Birds of a feather

Hi everyone,

It’s cold and food is getting scarce. Many birds are moving restlessly around the neighborhood, feeding in groups. There are suddenly robins in abundance. Juncos too. I don’t know if any of the birds are headed south but some might become part of larger flocks that fly as far as Mexico to find more agreeable weather for the winter. They’re fun to watch but these cold days I do most of my watching through the windows. I wrote a poem about the birds this time of year for THE PURCHASE OF SMALL SECRETS, published in the 1990s’.

Bright-Eyed Good-byes

Birds
busily
tidying up
the season

Shouting
bright-eyed
good-byes

Joining
choosing sides
forming teams

Arguing
plans

Debating
from treetops

Everyone
talking
at once

Swirling
down
to the lawns
like black leaves

Pecking
for snacks

Gusting
skyward

Diving
wheeling
practicing

Days 
of false
starts

Where
is the leader?

Who
is in charge?

When
was the signal?

I
missed the vote
same as always

They’re gone!

(c) 1998 David L Harrison, all rights reserved

Here at Goose Lake

Hi everyone,

We’ve had several days of wind and rain. Lots to watch around Goose Lake. Plenty to write about. Here’s one.

The Wave

Windy day at Goose Lake.
Restless ground clutter under siege
by missiles of twigs and leaves.
A small yellow butterfly bucks the wind,
fails, turns, goes with the current.
At the end of a limb slender as a whip,
the only leaf left waves wildly.

Waving at something? Me? Not likely.
But out of gratitude for a summer well done,
I raise my fingers slightly, 
It’s only a leaf.
It cannot know it might have waved at me,
or that I, at my window,
might have waved back.

© 2022 David L. Harrison