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Grouse

By Sandra McPherson b. 1943 Sandra McPherson

This water flows dark red

from alder tannin:

boot-stain river

between white rocks.

An ouzel, flannel-feathered,

sips the current up.

Mossgatherers

spread their patches

across a dry, flat turnaround.

They seem embarrassed,

want to shelter in the dark.

A coyote running in broad day;

stumps ruffling

with sulphur polypores

woodsy to the tongue,

woody to teeth. Early

yellow leaves paste river to its bed;

blackberries drop, the last,

many out of taste

and strictly smudge.

Puddles loop in the road:

Bottomland—

the foolhen

waits there for

the fool gun,

gray throat-down free in a burst,

the pose, the afterslump.

Carcass beside spirit.

O come to my hand, unkillable;

whatever continues, continue to approach.

Source: Poetry (March 2006).

Biography

Sandra McPherson weaves vivid images culled from nature into what Contemporary Women Poets contributor David Young characterizes as "rich, complex, and deeply satisfying poems." In collections that include the National Book Award-nominated The Year of Our Birth, 1988's At the Grave of Hazel Hall, and 1996's Edge Effect: Trails and Portrayals, McPherson has increasingly honed her unsentimental, insightful verse, imbuing it with . . .

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