One Beautiful Thing

Bald eagle flying low,
directly across my path.
Setting gibbous moon,
its filigree against winter blue,
behind clouds, light, airy,
pushed by arctic winds.
And in between, swathes of sumac
blazing up ditch banks.
Hills lolling dun, russet, tan and gold,
quiet as winter-dressed goldfinch.
Pine-green stands collar lakes,
their slate bellies bare
before ice takes them.
A single ancient oak,
its scrubby leaves potato brown,
still holding on dark-shadowed branches.
Field, textured and worked
as if by enormous embroidering hands.
Peanut shell hills with a prickle
of late-planted green shoots
punctuating roiled black soil.
Pooled waters in low places
where egrets rest before traveling south.
Kestrel on high pole, scanning
in low-angled light.
The sudden bright of sun
just emerged from dark walls of cloud.
One each day.
Just one.