The Spider’s Sleep In The Arch Above My Door

She eats her yesterday,
the night the bees fled.
Reeling in, unhitching
intricacy.

The freight train rumbles,
the coyote humbles its soft feet
in the melon patch
and pole beans
near her silent spinning
over the door we share.

Like me, she tosses dream-silk
to the nearest fragile limb
asleep in the dim light
to snag an anchorhold
on what she must do,
what cares to be seen to,
or believe in with the coming
of dawn’s jewel-dew.

Relentless under the impromptu
show of one lonely star in cloud-drift,
a screech owl’s rapid strike,
the crackle of street light,
her night work ties up single
tether points, casting
off broken ones, eaten,
prayers stretched from her hold.

Nimbled for the rising
of a take-for-granted sun,
she finishes a catch-all for a day
into which wanderers
might fly.

By Tricia Knoll

spider and web close up.


Knoll_Author_PhotoI wrote my chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press) some years ago and spent time looking for stories and events that highlighted the interface between wild creatures and humans in urban habitat. I live near a small creek in Portland which is a corridor for coyotes. Each fall a pileated woodpecker comes back to investigate my alder trees. I was captivated by this story of Isolde and the other red tails who have found niches in New York City. Website: triciaknoll.com

Photo of spider web by Noppharat Manakul

Isolde on the Shoulder of St. Andrew

Revelations 19:17 – ” I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a
loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and
gather together…”

I am she, that red-tail hawk, flashy with hook,
flaunting bravado, pledging a full-fledged
raptor monogamy of nest.
Binoc-ogling onlookers down
on Morningside Drive called me Isolde
and my first mate, Tristan who died.

We built a nest first on the face
of the cathedral of St. John the Divine –
on St. Andrew’s marble shoulder chosen
over the host of others – welcomed
to his loaves and fishes, his saltire
lifting our twigs and branches.
From a parapet, Tristan who died guarded sunsets.

After Tristan who died, Norman, until Hurricane Sandy.
Those below admire my resilient choices
of stalwart mates on a statued saint.
My talons grab Andrew’s stone scalp – balding
above sooted eyes and robe of algae,
I sky-watch south park, hear road
roar, smell the Hudson’s tired roll.

St. Andrew holds for me. Where St. John saw
white horses, sinners on broad shoulders
of betrayal, angels lugging vials of wrath –
my beak’s my sword. I slash the hustling
low-below of pigeons, squirrels, rats,
finding enough from this church wall
to feed my eyases.

I wait atop a secure saint,
outliving mates.
Me – the faithless, faithful non-aspirant
to pass through eternity’s guarded gates.

By Tricia Knoll

peregrine falcon perched on side of building


Knoll_Author_PhotoI wrote my chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press) some years ago and spent time looking for stories and events that highlighted the interface between wild creatures and humans in urban habitat. I live near a small creek in Portland which is a corridor for coyotes. Each fall a pileated woodpecker comes back to investigate my alder trees. I was captivated by this story of Isolde and the other red tails who have found niches in New York City. Website: triciaknoll.com

Click here to see a photo of Isolde on the shoulder of St Andrew and other stories of  hawks in New York City.

Photo of peregrine falcon by Michael Lane

Red Shoes

Red shoes are hushed-up woman-secrets ―
stilettos, lace-up sandals, ballerina flats,
garden muck-outs, ankle boots, fur-trimmed booties,
toeless pumps, running shoes, sneakers
in closets, scuffed like promises.

Tipping a pair of red shoes, girls dance,
prance, romance. The vain fairy tale
princess craved red shoes. She got them.
They danced at her mother’s funeral
and drove her insane.

Laugh at the lowly pigeon hen,
strutting the curb, seeking cooing from her cuddles.
She’s a grand wannabe girl on parade,
waddling on tiny red feet.

The little old lady on the bench
tossing dry crusts wears red shoes too.

By Tricia Knoll

pigeon with red feet strutting


Knoll_Author_PhotoTricia Knoll is a poet from Portland, Oregon, USA. Her recent books are Broadfork Farm about a small organic farm in Trout Lake, Washington, and Ocean’s Laughter, a book of lyric and eco-poetry about Manzanita, Oregon. Her book, Urban Wild, is available from Finishing Line Press. Visit her at her website: triciaknoll.com and on Twitter: @triciaknollwind.

Photo of pigeon by Jakub Gojda