On the Cusp
Deep…deep beneath Dad’s land
and still cooling from beginnings,
tectonic plates expand…subduct…
slip slide with incremental tension,
slight tremors on a Richter scale…
yet not enough for red ants
in his woods beyond the barn
to swarm out from their mounds,
nor for his canary in the kitchen
to bash its feathered body
against the metal cage.
He knows those warnings
to move horses from the stable.
Lately, we’ve all noticed
he doesn’t pay much mind
to TV news and such…
only reads the local paper
and books from the living room…
like the Bible and Farmer’s Almanac
and plays here and there by Shakespeare.
He spends more time out on the porch,
and senses weather changes
even before the metal rooster
on the old barn arcs from east to west,
and notes balances tipping
like horizon sun flash…on the cusp
just before the set.
Bonnie Marshall
Proem... 
He is obviously in my neck of the woods.
I imagined this wise gentleman in the San Joaquin Valley, yet any piece of land where people share his values is a fine place to live. Thanks for your comment, Malcolm.
There is something so peaceful about this poem, something in the father’s slowing down, even as those tectonic plates threaten movement. I love the image of the ants streaming from their hill as a tremor begins.
I really like porches…earthquakes are concerning. Thanks, Sally.