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Kelly R. Samuels is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee. She is the author of two chapbooks: Words Some of Us Rarely Use (Unsolicited Press) and Zeena/Zenobia Speaks (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have appeared in Salt Hill, Split Rock Review, RHINO, The Carolina Quarterly, and Cold Mountain Review. She lives in the Upper Midwest.
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
                                              the water.