A glint of almond eyes

at night, the lone opossum

breaks from script,

declining to feign death,

opting instead to stand, stare,

hold its ground,

then turns

and walks off slowly through

the rain-wet oaks

evoking that spaghetti western

with a theme by Ennio Morricone played

on ocarina—you might know the one—

leaving with its stash of fifty teeth,

some undetermined pocket change,

and dignity intact

It is enough, somehow, along with

red-winged blackbirds returning

to their perches in the marsh,

the strings of swans, their

sing-song calls inviting us

to look up, squinting at the glare,

the last of the lake ice

going with the wind

This company of sandhill cranes that walk

when they might fly, their

long strides pacing off the space

and putting things to right,

likely the pair that claims this

humble field between the trees year after year—

no proof, except to say

they have an attitude of home about them,

a hundred subtleties we recognize

but could not name

Enough, if the sky is clear

one chill, still-dark morning,

to see Venus, Mars, Saturn

and the crescent moon in

brilliant conjunction, reflecting

on the peace of nature,

the nature of peace,

the vantage points

where even things far distant

seem to come together