Today, with you, I breathe freely,
free from SUVs and traffic.
We could hike past the next village
as oaks keep us cool, keep us safe.
We stride uphill, take the long way,

perch on rocks, watch the river change
from brown to clear as it ambles
below. Our path turns to the north.
There we learn names of trees, their place
in the Abenaki’s green world. 

Once shade ends, we will turn back.
We will not hike to the village,
place of pickup trucks and bar food.
Trucks hog tight roads, will squeeze us out.
The sun above will glare at us. 

We turn back, take short cuts, frown at
what’s new: musclewood that grabs
tires left in the ditch, terse signs that
keep us on the path. We welcome 
back boats bobbing in the river,

cars returning to the place of
sidewalks and grilled chicken salad,
housecats and late-night vegan feasts,
closer to where we two belong. 
                        

It was locked. We didn’t have to
brave steep, uneven steps or hot
reek of beery urine with just
thin windows to bring in fresh air,
to find the view of the suburbs:

endless trees and houses, winding
streets of trucks and SUVs. I’ve
climbed up in a tower like this
before, but not with you. I huffed
up steep steps, held up my long skirt.

Victorians built these towers
all over New England. Young men,
some women climbed them on Sunday
afternoons for inspiring views.
I rode past these places back home.

Of course, this tower was open
back then. It smelled of fresh air,
pine needles, and gentle sunshine.

You might not have been welcome here
except as a wandering peddler.
I’d buy needles and thread from you
in my mill house, its back to woods,

its face to winding, unpaved road.
                        

Tonight, watching YouTube, I see starlings,
the one bird I know amidst so many
caramel-colored ones, some of them crows.

One of these crows jostles a lone starling
as if he were a tourist who only 
spoke loud, drunk English in a crowded pub.

The starling flies off. Another one lands.
He dips his yellow beak into water.
A woodpecker snatches dried red currants.

He wants a change from the birch trunk’s fat grubs.
Three starlings land. The other birds fly off
to their chicks. Only dry seeds are left now.

I think of starlings I saw at Metro,
songlessly thronging the freshly-cut grass.
No need to raise broken, rusty voices.

There caramel crows won’t drive them away.