Terminal Moraine

by Leonore Hildebrandt

I worry about gutters,
the washedout road, corroded pipes.
And squirrels they are everywhere
on edge, just like me.

“Go home,” I yell at the neighbor’s dogs.
Nakedpink, they scramble into the woods.

And what is wild about berryfields?
My friend and I walk the barrens,
the esters and kettle holes
look different almost rearranged

with the sweep of new roads, piled rock,
machinery and warning signs.

My neighbor breeds the dogs
in kennels all day they yip and wail.
Finally the plumber shows up,
tells me about his blocked arteries.

Landforms can be read, flow rates measured.
Go touch the wind to see how it blows.