by Mary MacGowan

Have you heard about
the ravage of the European
Starlings? she asked.
Hold on, I said, let me
write that down.

They imitate songbirds
sneak into their nests
ruin their eggs, maybe
eat them for all we know.
She’s riled, eyes wild.
Feeders & suet ruined
all the nice birds gone.

You are such the poet,
I said. Oh stop, she
answered. I just hate
those starlings.

by Mary MacGowan

A new
water lily
curls
upward
like
birthday
ribbon
‘til its tight
white bud
reaches the
surface.

Then
it leans on
the lake
and
smoothes
itself
awake.

by Mary MacGowan

Rain is
nothing
new
but when it
finds us
it is
and kindly
offers
excuses,
naps.

When it
first
started
I felt
nothing
but saw its
puckering
and held
my
golden
breath
flapping
my
arms up
to keep
myself
down.

by Cynthia Knorr

There are too many American flags in this town
and not enough milkweed.

The flags seem to multiply—
one on a porch begets flags on other porches.
They climb utility poles, festoon car antennas.
They wave in our faces, they snap,
insisting we don’t know where we are
and need reminding.

What we don’t know is where the milkweed is.
Or even what it looks like.

So let this be a reminder:
It grows on the roadside and in the field.
Its stem is uniform green
with tongue-like leaves that wave in the breeze
to the monarch, whose eggs it welcomes
and larvae it feeds.

For this, milkweed doesn’t ask for praise and doesn’t get any.
What it gets is mowed down, sprayed, and trampled.

There are patriots on every comer in this town
but no monarch butterflies.
Let milkweed rise from the earth with fanfare.
Let flags be covered in butterflies.