I climb the hill, try to see if they left enough
of the patch where the coltsfoot grows
when they mowed to the slope’s edge.
They had to. It’s where they get water
to fill the pumper truck for fighting fires.
I can’t tell, but I’m betting the coltsfoot
will make a showing just a few weeks from now.
They have a mission, after all.
I smile thinking of them as I reach the top
of the bank and turn to see the cattails,
all fuzzy atop their tall, straight stems,
and the brilliant, still pond behind them,
and the thin, graceful trees. I walk
the hilltop around the reservoir’s edge,
caught by the reflection of the ivory reeds
on the dark teal water. I am alone here.
I hear the silence. No red-winged blackbirds.
No bugs. No frogs. Not even a breeze.
Just this cold, clear winter air, and the sky,
and all this!