But fists are lonely

vulnerable things that can never match the strength of linked hands.

spicebush swallowtail

probing the beebalm’s red forked tongues

nothing but the sound of the wind hissing in the weeds

now the leaves get more of the sky than just sunlight

transported to the mountaintop food for eagles

take aim at the overcast sky

three corkscrew leaves stuck in the snow

the two goldenrod stalks topple together

now that it’s dead it can shine all year long

above the old Black Hawk hayrake on the barn bank

the nocturnal fox aims its muzzle at the sun

forty blackbirds gurgle & creak in the ash tree