Close call， close call， close call： this early in the morning

    The raucous¹ crows' raw caws are ricochets off rock.

    Afloat on wire from a dead tree's branch a piece of charred² limb

    Repeats a finch³ that perched on it in its last life.

    Here under the pergola， loaded with green wistaria，

    Misty⁴ air wistful with a few late lavender clusters，

    Light falling in petal-sized spots across the notebook page

    （Falling just now for instance on the phrase Light falling），

    And under the feeder where the thumb-sized Calliope hummer

    Hovers⁵ like a promising⁶ word on wings thrumming

    To slip her bill-straw past the busy sugar ants

    Through the red flower's grill⁷ into the sweetened red water，

    And over there in your "office" under the lean-to under the crabapple，

    Its fruit （like tiny ottomans） rotting sweetly on the branch

    （Bouquet⁸ of Calvados and fresh tobacco），

    Where in the midst of spades and pruners， hatchets⁹， hoes， and shears¹⁰，

    Trowels， dibbles， rakes， and sickles¹¹ you ground your axes，

    Sharpened your wits， filed your notes and journals，

    Moving through the garden， through all you made of where you lived——

    You catch your ex-son-in-law， taking photos， figs¹²， and notes on notes.