Monongahela

What is it
                                                 when to say — sharpshin —
            a hawk alights
                                                     on a lightning broke pear tree.
There is a will
                                   in hunting, whether a mistress
or a dove.
                            Sparrows lean into this, flatten themselves
       as mice
                                     in the gooseberry bush
          where thorn
                                          blunted with frost brings
                                                                                             harm
                                                         less than a blight
on persimmon.      What is it
                                                            then
                                     to stand in the kitchen and cleave
            fruit, ripe
                                               for a dish ascertained as
  astringent
                                         and look out through the window
      at some
                             untrained eaves and whisper — Monongahela.

Image: Ladimir Ladroid on Unsplash

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