Both mediocre…
The Hudson River flows into the sea.
The tide thrusts back with all its mighty power.
Swim a river race and you will see
the current’s back-and-forth is sweet-and-sour.
I swam a race from midtown heading north
to just before old George’s famous bridge.
The race began. The tide helped push us forth.
We glided ‘tween the Palisades’ gray ridge
and Manhattan’s west side greens. I swam
five easy-peasy miles. Then overhead
I heard the boom of trucks. I’d gone too far!
And still the river shoved me north. Bizarre!
I turned around, with rising sense of dread,
And flailed home. A splashy scattergram!
– Bruce Ballard
After frost, the Callery pear tree
outside my window comes alive with birds
who swarm the branches, wolfing down with glee
the fruit that hangs like dingleberry turds.
Blackened, wizened berries more like nuts –
a source of sustenance among the gold,
the bronze, the pink and orange leaves. But what’s
the reason why I watch this show unfold?
In years gone by, my cats would watch with me,
would sit on sill and stare with clacking jaws,
with twitching tails and howls of misery,
as birds tossed berries down their gaping maws.
But now my aging cats no longer care.
The birds are almost through. Have flown elsewhere.
– Bruce Ballard
