Clamor of Spring
Kelly R. Samuels
She’s written of them – these birds
flying back this way, their rumps lit
from morning sun cresting the bluff.
Within seconds, they’re so far away
as to be nothing but specks
and then nothing but empty sky.
The trees bare still, leaves
in wet piles, offer not just a void
but with unseen stars present. Those stars
learned of recently, those of beginnings
of starlight that threw off and out of
balance atoms of hydrogen and helium,
making work of their frigid murk,
what some call decoupling. (And, too, this
knowledge throwing off this poem, going
elsewhere, even temporarily.)
And more – something involving dark
matter and heat I don’t understand, and then
what even they don’t understand, what they say
they must explore further with different instruments
on that continent the distance from too great
to be calculated. This evolution.
Light and matter and heat.
From where I stand the steady stream
of cars a block away is heard – quick passings,
the drivers just smudges bent over wheels, intent.
The geese, long gone, have flown
over the marsh, stretching their wings, their necks
even farther north to where the only snow still present juts
from the ground, from the shady side of the tallest structure.
I imagine them approaching the lake I was born alongside,
their alighting ruffling
and rippling and disrupting