Poetry By Roger W. Hecht

Donald Lee Pardue CC



​
Driving out of Oneonta 


west toward the sun 
already sunk below the hills, 
not dark enough to be dusk 
but getting there. 
The Susquehanna lies just beyond 
a short patch of pasture 
& a future corn fields, 
barely bigger than a creek 
at this point. This divided highway 
makes a much bigger footprint, 
though the floodplain 
is substantially wider--
every dozen years or so 
the river reminds us of 
who owns what.
Spring is rushing ahead of itself, 
the steep foothills rapidly greening, 
the deft lacework of branches will soon 
be sewn solid & shut. Snow 
a distant memory we'll brag
to our grandkids about. 
The seasons are so out of whack. 
In the open space 
of the empty lanes before me 
a bald eagle slowly coasts 
across the highway toward the mountain, 
wings stretched flat, eyes level, 
an effortless low glide. I had 
to do a double take to catch 
the white tail feathers 
to confirm what I'd seen.
I know they nest nearby. 
Their presence discreet. 
A heroic return. 
Deer were once like that. 
When I was a kid, deer appearing 
at the edge of my school's ballfield 
sent everyone to the window
gawking at these ghosts 
haunting our clean suburban woods. 

Even the woods were once a rarity, 
cleared for crops that wouldn't grow 
and dairy cows that did. 
All it took was a calamity 
to resurrect the forests--
depression, capital flight, jobs 
outsourced to the lowest bidder--
& the deer in abundance 
& the foxes & the ticks 
they carry with them 
all came clambering back, 
so confident of themselves 
they don't startle 
when I walk my dog at night. 
They stand their ground 
on the neighbor's lawn 
watching warily. The eagle 
owned the air I drove through. 
I hold the wheel with both hands. 
I swear it turned its golden eye 
toward me as it passed, 
or maybe it just looked ahead. 
Sadly, there was no way 
I could take a picture
to hold onto that for a while. 
Land for sale signs along
the highway delude us into
thinking we can have it all.
We're not even renters. 
Daily we think we're destroying
the earth, & we are, 
but the earth
is just waiting us out,
just waiting on a calamity,
like the one we all anticipate,
like the one that's
right around the corner.
Or that other one. Or the one
we can't foresee yet. Who knows
what will come clambering back?





Roger W. Hecht's books include Talking Pictures (Cervena Barva Press) and Witness Report (Finishing Line Press). His work has appeared in Gargoyle, Boot of Matches, Redactions, A-Minor, Puerto del Sol, and other journals. When he's not playing drums with his band, Off the Rails, he teaches literature and creative writing at SUNY, Oneonta. He lives in Ithaca, NY.