By John Walser

The night front brought cool
brought dry, brought bright
brought open windows, brought
the mechanical tear
of a beetle dead tree
being taken down, brought
the shake of a dog collar
brought the distant songs
of chickadees, robins
only small tumbles and ruckuses
of calls close by
brought pollen, brought auras
brought my vision clearing
but that congested residue
of shoulder tightness
and temple split
brought another dog’s
booming bark
like an empty barrel
brought an old man and his wife
walking past
like they have every day
this week

just drizzle not the drenching
that was forecast and I’m
happier when I hear the small voice
buzz of little girls
playing singing asking
for the rain to consider
their needs, their desires
to skip race jump
all the way through springtime.

Two purple finches clutch
the brick side of our house
like a cliff face:

I watch through the patio door
until a small movement
(my heart beat?) scares them away.

~~~

John Walser’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Plume, Posit, North Dakota Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Baltimore Review, Rust and Moth, and One Art.  His manuscript Edgewood Orchard Galleries has been a finalist for the Autumn House Press Prize, the Ballard Spahr Prize and the Zone 3 Press Prize as well as a semifinalist for the Philip Levine Prize and the Crab Orchard Series First Book Award.  A four-time semifinalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize and a three-time Pushcart nominee, as well as a Best New Poets nominee and a Best of the Net nominee, John is a past recipient of the Lorine Niedecker Poetry Award. He is a professor of English at Marian University and lives in Fond du Lac, Wisconsin, with his wife, Julie.