The Tin Rooster of Congers

BY HARRY WAITZMAN

My eyes caught shadows humming
above crab grass as mosquitoes sought refuge
on necks and foreheads.

I am gentle with insects and all slimy things.
I stuffed a baby frog in a bottle and tried
to revive it with prayers when it stopped breathing.
It was no time for tears, but to explore again.

Stumbling on stones in an old pasture,
I felt quartz pebbles carried by a glacier before
cows were milked in red barns.

Now the shrill sweep of suburbia chills my sight.
I imagine my condo has a weathervane atop the roof.
Once a tin rooster crowed every morning in Congers,
waking Holsteins in time for milking.