There is nothing like a morning breeze
Arustling through these ice-coated trees,
The briny air a wintry tease
On Salamander Road.

For thirty years I’ve lived this lane,
My nearest neighbor a sandhill crane,
But she went away with September rain
On Salamander Road.

Loud squawks of gulls disturb the quiet,
They swoop and twirl in exuberant riot.
If I were a bird I’d have to try it
On Salamander Road.

Pale sun sits low in the clouded sky,
Across its face two ospreys fly,
Their whistles echo, a haunting cry
On Salamander Road.

A tufted titmouse alights on the limb
Of a scruffy tamarack, perhaps on a whim,
But bringing delight as I gaze on him
On Salamander Road.

A pileated woodpecker, that prince of birds,
Circles a cedar in a dance of thirds,
Its plumes a sight that beggars words
On Salamander Road.

Our Maine state bird, a black-capped chickadee,
Twitters its song and hops about merrily,
Its antics cheering, but only temporarily
On Salamander Road.

There is nothing like a morning walk,
A January check on all my flock,
Escaping all the poppycock
On Salamander Road.