Eamon Grennan

On A Cape May Warbler Who Flew Against My Window

She’s stopped in her southern tracks Brought haply to this hard knock When she shoots from the tall spruce And snaps her neck on the glass. From the fall grass I gather her And

Song

At her Junior High School graduation, She sings alone In front of the lot of us Her voice soprano, surprising, Almost a woman’s. It is The Our Father in French, The new language Making

Cold Morning

Through an accidental crack in the curtain I can see the eight o’clock light change from Charcoal to a faint gassy blue, inventing things In the morning that has a thick skin of ice

Looking for distinctive stones, I found the dead otter Rotting by the tideline, and carried all day the scent of this savage Valediction. That headlong high sound the oystercatcher makes Came echoing through the

Cat Scat

I am watching Cleo listening, our cat Listening to Mozart’s Magic Flute. What Can she be hearing? What Can the air carry into her ears like that, Her ears swivelling like radio dishes that