How wildness laps the margins of the town,
in spite of everything, could be a warning.
A wild turkey, maybe a deer, a fox,
even a bear, blunders into the back yards
to be untangled by authority,
but there are always others in the dark
with bright eyes. Nothing to fear for now,
not yet, nothing so frightful as an owl
crying to kind, a woodpecker’s insistent

Conrad Geller is an old poet, a Bostonian now living in Northern Virginia. More than a hundred of his poems have appeared in print and electronically, with the usual accumulation of prizes and awards.

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