Down in the lower woodlot, the woodcutter / whirls his chainsaw through the wreckage of of fallen logs scattered like pick-up sticks.

The low profile of the mainland / Across Vineyard Sound / Swims into focus.

“The Ukraine crisis is something we don’t want to see.”

—Xi Jinping

A slant of light on a winter afternoon
Illumines a two-foot pine sapling
I forgot I planted at the lawn’s edge.
In my mind’s eye: I accept from
Someone’s hands the tiny tree,
Roots swaddled in a plastic bag.
I transport it from somewhere
And plant it at home on the Vineyard,
Heaping soil around the base, then
Forgetting about it until a ray of light
Points to a tree tall enough for me to see
From the windows of my study.

In a long row of pots along the side of the station / Blooms the garden of the garage’s mechanic.

I wrote about hawks once before when they were nesting and feeding their fledglings.