Molly Fisk

Satiety

Because the cord of wood we stacked together and sunlight through its chinks like stars
Because thistle seed, having overflowed the feeder 

Because only on some mornings the hawk screams from a standing dead pine

Because ice lingering on our tiny pond
Because intermittent hard rain and water in diagonal sheets across the road 

Because again the house cat bathing her forepaws as well as my wrist
And other poets working hard too at their different desks: choosing, reconsidering 

Because the mild stink of sourdough starter from the kitchen 

Because a new mottled red scarf I knitted myself and some old purple mittens
Because dormant blackberry canes, snow at higher elevations, the bare arms of persimmon, 
and dogwood buds already in place

Because February, and later March, and the whole human race

A Field Guide to Western Birds

In the broken, hundred-year apple
two woodpeckers beat opposing tattoos
between flurries, swooping in flight to land
and drum, as though a direct route's too
rudimentary: they inhabit calligraphy. 
One's a Red-breasted Sapsucker, 
said to be inconspicuous, though on this bleary 
day she's as bright against the gray bark 
as a splash of paint. Do you think I'm lonely, 
watching what's out the window for company? 
Referencing Peterson now the power's 
gone and my phone won't scroll? There's no way 
to call. The Nutall's Woodpecker's male 
and ladder-backed—only red atop his crown. 
You don't care about birds, perhaps, 
but listen. I'm trying to say something that matters. 
Contrast this cold afternoon of real life 
with the internet's flash and spangle — ephemeral 
surely, though we're all so used to it now, 
we turn toward the screen the way we would hunt 
for that favorite sweater from childhood 
we chose to wear even impractically, 
if we could find it, even when shoveling snow. 
It's the fierce urge to belong that biologists 
study in baby monkeys, giving them wire 
mothers and watching the frantic devotion:
no warmth, no milk, but something to love.
Of course in three feet of new powder, 
the world at a standstill, I turn 
to what's living for solace: two woodpeckers 
drilling a Gravenstein and you, reader,
somewhere in the future, holding this poem. 

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