Five Wednesday Mornings

On a bicycle trip through the Cascades
I spotted an osprey gliding over a stream.
It snagged a rainbow trout
and ate it on a deadwood branch.

I never cottoned to the idea
of Original Sin.
My sins I learned by observation
and repeated on my weak-willed days.

The farm failing to harvest black ink
was a common enough experience.
When it does. Hallelujah! Jubilee!
The accounts float for another nine years.

I awoke to a fly’s buzz
and the twenty-sixth sunrise in the wilderness.
The fly landed on my chest, but flew away.
I was not as dead as we smelled.

Visiting home for the holidays
I took my poetry into my father’s workshop.
I tinkered with the lines
using a ball peen hammer and belt sander.

copyright © 2021 Kenneth P. Gurney

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