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The Soup’s Not Ready
Don Hynes
we move from city to island
and back to flowering trees
awakening so slowly this year
as if blossoms waited a secret sign
for the riot of spring color.
A pair of bald eagles stood the point
looking out to sea, considering;
golden eagle circled again and again
questioning the sky with its wide arc
while seals and otters surfaced,
looking to shore, dark eyes asking.
No one’s allowed in the kitchen,
though hungry are we all;
the soup’s not ready
and even the stars
can’t rush her cooking.