April is Poetry Month

In the Time of Losses

We don't want to alarm the heron who's
Guarding the cranberry bog from frost.
But so many hares have been eaten by weasels:
The losses go on night after night.
Foxes slip through the brushes at dusk.
So much we care for has been carried off.
The airs and ars we hear in this poem
Belong to the hare who cries out in the night.

Robert Bly