Branches bow even lower,
black walnuts tumbling from their fingers
into the waiting arms of squirrels and earth. It can take
hours or months to crack the spiked shells, reveal the heart,
bury it someplace safe. Somewhere in the distance, crows
are creating a commotion, friendly argument amongst themselves,
while deep in the throb of forest, cardinals finish one another’s sentences.
It goes on for ten minutes or so, this important conversation. A woodpecker,
staying on task, bores holes in the same dead tree that, were it not for
the others holding it up, would have fallen months ago. It can eat for weeks
from the peeling bark and softened skin of loss. Along the fenceline,
a short row of deer shedding winter’s insults nibbles hors d'oeuvres
served on the plate of early spring. And there is something else. Can you hear it?
Everything repeats in its own language the same refrain: There is still
so much left to love, left to love, left to love.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt
Copyright 2026
