Pheasant feathers blend into an arrangement of dry cattails, pine cones, and eucalyptus leaves. Piped music croons "it's all right" over the gurgle of a suction hose, the mosquito hum of a drill. The plaid couch across the room sags on one end as if bearing the weight of someone turned successfully invisible. Copyright © 1996 by Sarah Fairchild

NOT LOST, FOR ONCE, by SARAH FAIRCHILD

I arrive half an hour early, wait in the car, watching mist make tiny bird tracks across my windshield. Naked poplars bend before fingers of wind; robins and sparrows hop through quivering grass. I hear the caws of an invisible crow over the purring of my engine. For the sake of the earth, I turn it off. Now I hear wind moaning through my window, the flirting of birds. I can't see the clock: the digital numbers stop shining when the engine is off. No matter, I'm sure I can wait a few minutes. A droning UPS truck turns the corner behind me, blares its horn: time to get moving. Wind rumbles through the trees like thunder. At last the long graceful wings of a crow glide over the top of a house, then swoop out of sight. Nothing has been lost. I did not need to leave an hour early to find this place, did not waste half and hour watching for crows, finding this poem. Copyright © 1996 by Sarah Fairchild

SPRING by SARAH FAIRCHILD

At last         on this barren stick of a tree:       brown buds,         and here,           some green!