For the past couple months, I've been intrigued by the loud mechanical hawk screeches broadcast from our campus football stadium. I asked around and found out they keep birds from flying into the large sky box windows and dying. The presence of hawks is there every morning when I arrive and every evening when I head home. This morning listening to those warning cries, something crystalized, a line of a poem came to me and a metaphor. I went to my office and wrote a poem, "Hawks on Guard." For me, a poem often starts with a "sticky word," as poet and author Kelly Madigan Erlandson calls it, a phrase, or an image that hangs around--like the hawks. The poem is under construction--I'll post it later.
I love to play with words. To capture moments on the page. To explore the physical and spiritual geography of what I call "fly-over country." I write from imagination, observation and my own experience of wandering in fly-over country--the literal, physical spaces of my life on the Minnesota prairie and the inner territory of the soul.