Tag: wildlife

The River God’s Daughter

1 November 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Angela Patten

Here I am on the river again
gliding my kayak past a row of turtles

their shells gleaming in the sun
like freshly washed dinner plates.

I turn to see a muskrat’s muzzle
parting the water like a butterknife.

Around a bend a heron stands
knee-deep in weeds and water

like my father in black rubber
boots fishing on the River Boyne.

Although he loved rivers and streams,
he hated the sea with equal fervor

distrusting its relentless waves
its monotonous unremitting motion.

But back to the heron and the mystery
of that bony beak, that frozen pose

that alien cranium with its opaque eye
the shriek and fluster of its wings

as it takes off creaking into the air
like an early flying machine.

Unlike my father, I loved the sea
and the cold consecration of salt water.

But now I am a convert to the river
that flows through marsh and mudflat

town and village, state and country
the wayward weather its only god.

Angela Patten is an award-winning Irish poet, author of five poetry collections and a prose memoir. Her work has appeared in literary journals and magazines in the U.S. and abroad. A native of Dublin, Ireland, she is a Senior Lecturer Emerita in English at the University of Vermont. Read more at www.carraigbinn.com.

Like a Tree Planted by the River

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Rochelle Shapiro

As if summoned by a dream to this bench
along the Mohawk where cherry trees weep
pink and white blossoms that spill into the river,
I hear a congregation of birds:
an oriole whistles and chatters,
a blue jay performs its whispery song.
Hidden among the reeds, a bittern
thrums its low heartbeat like words
that take shape as if spoken before.

This is my cathedral:
a roof of sky, a river edged with sedge,
the swordlike veined leaves of Sweet
Flag, the white bell-shaped flowers
that dangle from the arcing vines
of King Solomon’s Seal,
and the Fiddlehead Fern
that curls like my granddaughter’s hair.

[Author Note: Poem title from Psalm 1:3]

Rochelle Jewel Shapiro has published in The New York Times (Lives). Nominated twice for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, her short stories and poetry have been published in Prism, The MacGuffin, Euphony, The Iowa Review, The Atlanta Review, and more. Find her at http://rochellejshapiro.com, @rjshapiro, and @rochelle.j.shapiro.

Gold Scattered on Grass

1 August 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Laura Hannett

The toad and crisp leaf are twins on the bricks.
Old milkweed pods flock with the sparrows.

Dandelions and finch, bright gold against green:
One swoops, and dips, and it seems as if
a flower’s been launched, a brash
and brilliant illusion of flight—

the moment winks at the indistinct edge,
catches you short

with the delighted confusion such mix-ups can bring,
living similes playing between wild things.

Laura Hannett is a native of Central New York and a graduate of Hamilton College and the College of William and Mary. Other work can be found in Last Stanza Poetry Journal, Neologism Poetry Journal, Verse-Virtual and Mania Magazine.

First Light

4 June 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Sam Barbee

Snow surrounds the wide pond.
Squirrels bound edges.
Silence begotten by still water.
Catalyst for green leaves,
and April hymn.

Crystal glaze bursts open in sun–
ice will submit, sepia dispelled
with winter’s consent.
Trees resemble
black keys against white horizon,
flats and sharps to swoon the rabbit
down the slope.
Chill abides
with brown bear and cub.
Downey woodpeckers tap notations.
Nature’s fresh overture
spills treble,
underlies with bass notes–
morning song
and dirge alike.
A red fox waltzes
extinction. Toppled trunks and stumps
ossify, and
shadows absorb imprecise
light. A lively etude evolves
with the immaculate meadow.

Evergreens sway, fallen cones
freckling drifts. Each impact
an apostrophe
to this frozen canticle.
Dwindling imprints reminding
we dance alone.

Sam Barbee’s newest collection is Apertures of Voluptuous Force (2022, Redhawk Publishing). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (2016, Press 53), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016; he is a two-time Pushcart nominee.

Midnight Music

10 April 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Tracy Duffy

Like a…rat-a-tap-tap
from the drummers—drum
goes the night-time, in the forest
like the crickets—hum
Chiming in, the hooting
of the owl at night

set the tempo, set the tempo
to the music, midnight

Neon shiny stars
grant the stage, its light
the rattle—ssh, – rattle – ssh
of a sliding snake
and the dripdrop, dripdrop
of fish into the lake

set the tempo, set the tempo
like the drummers-drum
Hum…hum…hoo
Ssh…ssh…shey
Drip…drop…doo
Tempo Set

Tracy Duffy writes poetry while taking a gap year from a lifetime of work in medical cosmetology. Earned BS in Organizational Management while raising a family. Published in Bacopa, Writers Alliance Gainesville; P’AN KU, BCC Student Literary/Arts Magazine; Tiny Seed Literary Journal; Open Door Magazine Labyrinth; Anti-Herion Chic; Passage: The River.

Tracking the Fox

11 March 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Terra Miller

sticks and stones
encased in ice
shine in the eye
of the hidden sun.
her

pawprints hide beneath
fallen birch tree
and between broken
boulders.
she will not escape me.
but

while snowflakes fall into
the wind
making white mounds
of rubble
out of autumn

a voice creeps into my ear:
rest.
what have i
to lose
or gain?

i stand
ankle deep in snow
on a wet stone,
ready to sharpen my mind
with silence.

i’ll let the vixen tread another trail
for me to find tomorrow.

Terra Miller is a tired senior at Palm Beach Atlantic University in Florida. Her poetry has been published in Living Waters Review and Westmarch Literary Journal. Even though she’s had the opportunity to live in many states, she would call Hawaii her home, leaving half her heart behind after moving.

Family Flock

23 February 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Danita Dodson

Daily I count turkeys on my land—
one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine—
willing this family unit
to stay together forever, wishing
to goodness that not one of them
will ever be lost from the circle
when winds blow or rifles rise,
hoping they’ll keep close to home
in the unknowns of shifting storms.

At twilight, they nest in the trees,
finding refuge in the folds of earth,
the sky a quilt of fading autumn light
that draws them near as one,
like a cabin’s warmth at day’s end,
kinship a shield against the cold.
And I pray for them as a brood—
one, two, three, four, five,
six, seven, eight, nine—
what I’ve prayed for my own family.

Danita Dodson is the author of three poetry collections: Trailing the Azimuth, The Medicine Woods, and Between Gone and Everlasting. Her poems appear in Salvation South and elsewhere. She is the 2024 winner of the Poetry Society of Tennessee’s Best of Fest. She lives in Sneedville, Tennessee. More at danitadodson.com.

Peregrine

1 July 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Stephen J. Cribari

Two years ago we had peregrine falcons here.
They bred in a nest under a nearby bridge
That spans the Mississippi River. I
Stood riverside the day the three chicks fledged
Dropping from the bridge’s understructure,
Falling in a wild, flailing descent
And finding just before they hit the river
What wings mean, solving the secret code
That opened a doorway into the halls of the sky.

A month later curious I returned.
The empty nest, but there up in the sky
High up in the sky a black speck
Like a piece of protein floating across the eye
But reaching speeds that edged beyond my vision.
Like a thunderbolt loosed from the sky it bolted down,
Leveled to a plane above the river,
Screamed through the bridge’s latticed understructure
Then turned as bolting horse will dead stop turn

And flaring into the bridge’s latticework
Settled on the beam where its nest had been.
And there it began to preen, as if nothing at all
Let alone something utterly extraordinary
Had just happened. And I thought of you.

Stephen J. Cribari has been writing poetry for over sixty years. In a parallel life he was a criminal defense attorney and law professor. He resides in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Still Life (2020) and Delayed en Route (2022) are published by Lothrop Street Press.

Wild

22 October 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Christine Andersen

A master of stealth and ambush.
It was surreal to see the big cat
running through the woods
in late morning,
his spectacular tail floating behind him
as he dashed beside the river—
deft, tawny, muscular,
his head seeming too small for his large body,
the gait measured and smooth
as if padding the air instead of the ground.

A mountain lion in Connecticut 30 feet from where I stood

with a face like I’d seen in pictures,
read about in National Geographic,
gazed at behind the bars in zoos.

My fear was quick to rise.

But he never looked my way.
He ran toward the Gurleyville Bridge,
toward a hollow of 19th century houses
and the historic gristmill.
He ran toward the town library,
the shopping center, the nearby mill town.

In my dreams,
he still runs—
attacking my dog one night,
the next, pacing outside my front door.

As the days pass,
he glides like a specter
near the barn,
up the road from my mailbox,
beyond the fence in the backyard.

He grows larger, stronger, sleeker.
Almost imaginary.

What it must be to instill awe.
To be respected
for power and prowess.
To run swiftly and pounce for your supper
down cliffs and rocky terrain.
To creep under the moon
through tall grass and deep woods
and sleep in caves or brush.
To nurse your own wounds,
travel wide for a mate,
swim in rushing rivers.

To become mythical
to an old woman
in a small New England town.

What it must be to be wild.

Christine Andersen is a retired dyslexia specialist who hikes daily through the Connecticut woods with her hounds. The changing New England seasons inspire many of her poems. Publications include Comstock, Octillo, and Awakenings Reviews, Glimpse, Dash, Glassworks and Evening Street Press. Winner of the American Writers Review 2023 Poetry Contest.

After the Blizzard

20 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Wally Swist

The fox prints puncturing the surface
of the snow after the blizzard
score its whiteness—
the same four notes pressing themselves
over and over again, in a meandering line
across a page, that is more silence
than music, but is still a melody that
can barely be heard,
shadows filling the tracks beneath
the pine branches shifting in the wind.

But it is the sound of the bells
that not so much startles me
as it offers me solace, ringing
from a distance, this soft chiming of sleigh
bells, until as it gets closer, it is more
of a whistle, the notes becoming distinct—
making me aware of its velocity, now
in flight, the tinkling call of a white-throated
sparrow, streaking close to my ear, melding
its voice with the streaming winter sunlight.

Wally Swist’s books include Huang Po and the Dimensions of Love (Southern Illinois University Press, 2012), selected by Yusef Komunyakaa for the 2011 Crab Orchard Open Poetry Competition, and A Bird Who Seems to Know Me: Poems Regarding Birds and Nature, winner of the 2018 Ex Ophidia Poetry Prize.