Passing

I’m in a boat house owned by another old pal;

he is traveling for work somewhere abroad.

Mallards have lifted from the vernal pond,

and thousands of frogs are singing

because it’s raining. I wish Bill was here so we could

talk about our friend who has gone and returned.

Crows call to each other across the lake. Same old

story: there’s danger and it surrounds us. And now

the blue heron I’d failed to notice pulls his legs

free of mud and flies away. A small falcon skims

the shoreline. When he was raised, was Lazarus pleased?

I wonder how he lived the rest of his unforeseen days.

Were his preparations any different than they’d been before?

It’s early March, and Easter will be here soon. Jesus, too,

realized how permeable the membrane is that keeps us

have passed on through to somewhere else,

but the joyful frogs remain crazy

with song. A hunter’s gunshots punctuate the distance,

a single crow lands in the crook of a tree, and it seems

as though the blessed rain has nearly stopped for now.