GREEN CHILE
The fresh green chiles have arrived,
air-shipped by UPS from Hatch, NM,
where soil and sun
connive to issue a wicked harvest:
the long green fruit of the genus Capsicum,
rich in the devilishly addicting capsaicin.
The meat of the pods, when prepared, will accent
a grand cuisine born of the Southwest, and foreign
to tastes that fear the fiery hot.
They care little for the homeopathic endorphin
released by this ancient herbal remedy,
and may never know the brilliance of the sauce
I fashion from this forbidden fruit.
My shipment, now roasting on the grill,
emits a smoky earthen smell
foreshadowing the subtle taste to come.
Stowed four to a ziplock bag, these treasures
are destined for the freezer;
there to wait, like units of blood,
until their time.
My stash will be secure in the fridge;
my addiction safe for another year.
RETIREMENT DECISIONS
The cereal boxes line the shelf stiffly,
like library books,
their multicolored bindings proclaiming
lower-fat content, zero cholesterol, champions all
and beckoning my choice.
My foggy mind is urged to recall yesterday's selection,
to avoid the repetition that
signals the onslaught of certain boredom.
This is a weekday, I think. No chance
for the preferred egg-and-green-chile burrito
reserved, by sheer discipline, for languorous weekends.
Besides, cold cereal requires no preparation,
an important consideration where viscous thought
lags behind an early morning clock.
Perhaps I'll mix several brands today:
an experiment to stimulate
collapsing brain cells.
The emergence of a new taste and texture
could herald an antidote to the universe of styrofoam.
The secret of survival in retirement
lies in developing a new stratagem:
a program to replace the paradigm of active work.
Once formed, the pattern must be broken, like an egg,
to release the satisfaction
of this newly-born deliverance.
SHARP-SHINNED HAWK
The call is unusual, close to the shrill
kik, kik, kik, described by Peterson.
But it doesn't register
as something new
and only mixes anonymously
with the background song of robin and vireo.
Then above the path he appears---a woodland hawk.
The leggy sharp-shin, a diminutive but fierce accipiter.
We view each other: I with delight,
he with a stern red eye inspecting an interloper.
With binoculars, I focus on the long tail's shape
to verify he's not the larger look-alike,
a Cooper's Hawk. His response is sudden:
forward lean, release of perch, a deft dropping off,
wings tucked like a feathered F-14.
And abruptly I catch a seldom seen full-front view,
increasing in size within my glassy field of vision---
now accelerating with uncommon speed;
the angry eyes laser-fixing
on this vulnerable target.
Better judgement forces me to drop the glasses
and fend off the unexpected raid.
But the bird, of course, veers off at fifteen feet
and regains another perch,
all the while repeating his now obvious call:
Watch out. Here I am.
Relentless, he begins another sortie,
but now assured of his identity,
I quickly depart this patch of woodland territory.
ACROPHOBIA
The ladder leans against the house,
idle.
The peak remains unpainted.
In time, courage
will overcome fear.
We'll just have to wait.
Johnes K. Moore is an emeritus professor of biology whose
retirement is being spent developing the right side of his brain
in such activities as birding, boat building, wood carving, and
writing poetry.