The Bucket That Spring and Summer

It started out clean, beat-up five-gallon 
white at the bottom until the rabbit head
the size of a tennis ball and twice as heavy
landed in the middle with a cranial thunk.
Then the front feet, weightless, like insects.
After awhile, hide: a lined sleeve, slimy
white and crazed with blood vessels.
Then the slump of guts. On a good day they
came out all at once, like the last bit of snow
sliding off a roof

Hawk Two Ways

On fenceposts along the interstate
hawks resemble vases, finials
narrow below    widening as they rise
smooth as marble
unstammering as a rune

One hawk alights on a highway margin
teeters on scrawny legs to rip prey
abstraction manifest as a bird
a cartoon    a chicken
something that would almost cluck

Dargie Anderson is a writer, lawyer and parent living in eastern Idaho on the west slope of the Tetons. She holds an MFA from the University of Michigan and her poems have appeared recently in Channel, Broadsided, The Rupture, and Split Lip Review. She is preoccupied with everyday landscapes and likes to drive around America looking out the window.

Published April 25 2022