Poetry by Russell Rowland
The puddle was available, because
it rained last night. Drought means a long time
between birdbaths.
Only a quick dip and flutter. Overindulgence
takes time away from foraging.
I relate to the hygienics
of a backyard bird, for after all, we too are songs
bird-caged in bodies for a while—
though we have bathed in the Jordan
with some others, to wash away shortcomings;
restore our voices. The robin
meanwhile simply rises, refreshed and cleansed,
to a nest with its three promises.
Russell Rowland writes from New Hampshire. Recent work appears in Red Eft Review, Wilderness House, Bookends Review, and The Windhover. His latest poetry books, Wooden Nutmegs and Magnificat, are available from Encircle Publications. He is a trail maintainer for the Lakes Region (NH) Conservation Trust.
