Come Spring, in Tuscarora

  After snowmelt, the earth percolates

shards of glass, flattened, lidless cans,

​or, protruding from  mud,

the torso of a porcelain doll.

Once in a while, the sharpest among us

spots a Chinese coin or a chert arrowhead.

This spring, I was delighted to find

a rusted sardine can with the key rolled in place.

I spend too much time watching where I walk,

searching for detritus of dead people’s lives.

These bits and pieces end up collecting dust

on a shelf, in a box, on  a window sill.

I should be looking skyward,

paying attention to the way

morning  light moves across the valley

and gives relief to the mountains.  

I should be noticing  blue flax tinting the hillsides,

listening for meadowlarks, catching the scent of wild rose.