Baskett Slough

There’s so many speaking, not wanting to give up the slough.

They’ve had it for the entire winter… to themselves

Chickadees, common nighthawks, grebes, sneaky rails and coots.


The marsh, still cold…wet…wants to capture my clumsy steps.

Grasses hide the outer rim of the seeping lake

Then mud, a good dousing…slick…brown as cake frosting.


My movements tell the story of who I am…speech patterns.

Geese and ducks…angry…bat the water with their wings.

I can’t help it…I’m looking for spring…yes…still.


It sprinkles…the wind cold enough to numb my fingers.

Peregrine Falcons eye me with suspicion…they draw circles in the sky.

It’s quiet in the updrafts…they watch me plea with the talkers.

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