a poem by
Terry Boykie
> bio
My Doctor's Place
Whenever I walk along
Watchung Mountain Road
after the January thaw
I see a harrier perched
atop the basalt outcrops
searching the rubble
of country rock and
baked sandstone for
emerging meadow voles
dazed by the low-angle
of the winter sun.
Sad to say, I can’t predict
the future from these
living and frozen
glimmers, but neither
can a god whose
apologists ignore
the Triassic deductions
stripped bare by the
forces of the last
glacier in these parts.
