Wild yard

with each pass, the grass
gets shorter under whirring blades
and my sweat gathers
in the robust sun

small birds linger and,
despite the whickering noises
of the push mower,
rush in as I turn my back, looking
for dandelion seeds and
long bits to fortify nests

at the back of the yard, floating
on top of the still-long grass
in the shade of the box elder,
long and worn, barred
with red and black and
tipped in cream,
a single hawk's feather