roused at dawn to hillock copse & tangled
wood to smoke mist riding the river/ smudging
the treetops – our mornings lately thick
with sooty cataracts down from Canada –
in the illusory tow upstream of lateen cross
-sandbar or amongst the ordinary quarrels of fireflies
bumping skimming/ bunched lanterns smattering
the slate stone bluff dispersing at daybreak’s
blush at yesterday’s figments & gospel in half light
& every early riser’s penchant for getting
a jump on/ judging the truth of so long

ago listening for the tussocky first flush tongue
of the chimney swift – one navigator
to another – never voluntarily settling never
perching – sometimes clinging – but mostly flying
for all she’s worth her whole life away finding
in subtle repositionings – & despite my fake owl
efforts at dissuasion – not a song
nor call but reticent chitter at almost hidden corners
from the French nicher to nest
& though from aides-memoires
& the way a library’s pause turns the world
I’m schooled in gravy train & missteps – in garden soils
roots & stones heaped – & cravings
so like my sweet scarred little sister
a feather in her hat she says
now that wouldn’t be so bad & still she wonders

why I’ve painted the ceiling that peculiar strain
of blue-y green-y gray & gazing down
from this promontory I say
to bring good luck & ward off demons & all our lost
souls who couldn’t cross the water along
this span haunted harmless in the encircling
embrace & to this old house I answer
I’m vexing the nesting birds & mosquitoes
sweat bees & no-seeums & saying so I sense
the power of my pulsing blood the lure
of my breath & sweat trusting haint blue
porch paint mixed with milk & lye
will keep the bugs & all our ghosts at bay

Mara Adamitz Scrupe

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