by Michael Yaworsky

From a Drumlin, November, Late Afternoon

frigid-furrowed fields fast frosting                    

under amber sun and moon’s ascent

darkening dry deserted distance

summer’s verdure fading, dimmed and spent         

setting sun’s striations streaking

horizon gleams in gold-and-crimson bands

mudcaked mottled mounds, muskrat

burrows, brittle browns and tans

rockbound remnants, russet reeds recumbent

rustic refuge for earth-bound quail

tousled tree-limbs tangled, twigs twining

forlorn feather from falcon’s tail

noiseless nurslings nightly nestled

fugitive pheasant aloft in final flight

barren, bleak, bounteous, beautiful                   

sprawling dim and dusky at the coming of the night   

silent settling still swamp-lands

cattails, cornstalks, stunted stumps of underbrush

faded failing foliage forging                                

fabric out of autumn’s hush

common… country… comfort… cozy

familiar, yielding, hard abiding

dun, dying, desert dreary—

genesis in autumn hiding

Baby Steps    

exiting a restaurant I watched a family on the sidewalk

mother, father, little girl

as parents talked, girl stood on curb






                 \off again




                         \ down

      mixed things up:    one foot on the curb, one off   L __  L __  L__

      duck walk:    v\/   v\/   v\/

      now turn     – )     now the other way     (- 

      now sdrawkcaB

      …. and she skips     _/\   _/\   _/\

      puts arms out, rotates clockwise:    \——[ ]——\

      now the other way:    /——[ ]——/                                                                                    

               she never runs out!   there’s no end to the sequences and variations

               and nuances and permutations

                and flavors and improvisations

               and steps and elaborations

                       she can invent!

      o hurry sweetie, do it while you can, we don’t become who we are

                     without playing these things out

                     and before you know it you’ll be the one

                     staring gape-jawed at your own kid’s antics

mom & dad chat, semi-absently watching her gambol

the variations she could’ve devised! there’s no end

had her parents not finished talking eventually

yes had mom & dad not said c’mon let’s go

she could’ve  have gone on indefinitely

each move forged neural networks

each move built muscle memory

each move mapped patterns

each move was rhythmic

each move was music

each move was fun

each move was!

each move is!

each move,

uh huh,






Michael Yaworsky is a retired attorney and legal editor. He and his family live in Rochester’s 19th Ward neighborhood.