Back into the park again before dawn
While the northern sky silhouettes pointed evergreens
And mist covers warm lakes
Like hair over a dark woman’s eyes,

Over the Mizzy Lake Trail too fast this time
To even think of seeing the prior evening’s marten,
Too single-minded to identify thrushes on the path
Or appreciate the loon’s melancholy yodel,

Full of morning’s hope and last-chance determination,
I hurry over roots and rocks toward West Rose Lake.
Perhaps if I arrive first and early enough,
I’ll meet my quarry before we leave the park for good.

Across the lake, in mist that has yet to clear,
A bull moose watches me, no longer eating,
Then sloshes to land, breaks through the brush,
And disappears into the forest.

Elated by the success of my persistence,
Yet disappointed by my dream-like encounter,
I return to things just as beautiful—
Boreal chickadees, warblers, and hummingbirds.
—Dale Bicksler, Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania, works in the IT department of a Harrisburg insurance company and enjoys birding in his spare time.

The Meadows
Mute swans make just the sound I need
In the early morning of our last day.
Tree swallows, light on the wind,
Drop like flakes in a freak November storm.

If I note the calm of the pond,
The color and texture of the marsh plants,
And the elegance of the lone egret,
Can I can take some of this heaven to earth?
Author’s Note: “The Meadows” is the local name for the Cape May, New Jersey, Migratory Bird Refuge.
—Dale Bicksler

A Sign in New Jersey
A roadside message in New Jersey, signed by God,
Said “I don’t question your existence.”
As if God, hurt to the core, feeling invisible,
Prefers shamed assent to honest doubt.

One can imagine a similar sign at Kathie’s Christmas
Or a wet and slimy one floating on Loch Ness.
Do they, along with countless aliens in UFOs,
Feel slighted when evidence fails to convince?

God, for me, is exactly all that’s good.
No omni guarantees (potence, science, or presence),
But no problem of evil either.
If good exists, so does (s)he.
—Dale Bicksler

No Hands
The ride is smoother
When life is experienced
Without holding on.
—Dale Bicksler

Harold Stone
Turning down Railroad Ave, an alley in spite of its name,
I see the spinning red, white, and blue and know
there’s no need to look for another barber this time.
There will be no sign on the door: “Harold is in the hospital”
or “Harold will return from rehab as soon as possible.”

When I enter the simple, old-fashioned, three-chair shop,
the maker of those hand-written signs is the first to greet me.
“I’m glad you’re here,” she says. “He needs something to do,”
referring to her husband of 71 years reclining in the barber chair.
Harold greets me too and offers me his chair.

Harold’s been cutting hair continuously since July 5, 1928.
Even his few years in the Navy were spent cutting hair,
first on a troop transport ship that delivered five thousand at a time
and brought some home, then on a hospital ship called USS Repose,
one of several with names like Haven, Comfort, and Tranquility.

Though still within one block of where he started at age 14,
in Mechanicsburg where he now holds the key,
and even though their income can hardly have been large,
he and his wife traveled around the world, a fact
amply illustrated by their world map made pin cushion.

Every time Harold must close his shop for health reasons,
he loses a few more customers, but he’ll not lose me,
not just because he cuts my hair for five dollars,
but because I don’t want to miss this part of his life,
and I want to give him what he still wants—something to do.
—Dale Bicksler