They Teach Us to Adapt to Them

Crows, those shadow-shouters,

seem to live in towns amongst thick trees.
Out of their twig-walled cottages,
here they come, gliding, flapping,
bouncing, yelling. They're quiet

during almost all their hours,
but their noise makes you forget
that--like a ratchet-voiced hermit
who bickers with imaginary
invaders, scaring hikers. Crows

maneuver us into adapting to them.
So many creatures do. Given
the billions of us, they all have to.

hans ostrom 2023

After Frogs Finally

After frogs finally
and all at once
(as if by contract or with
music charts) stop their
maniacal, charming belch-fest,
night air's suddenly
full of unused echoes,

which will stay for next
night's sprung chorus.

At this time, there will be
no statement regarding
hominids listening to frogs
while both have occupied
Time's gorges. Instead

we suggest you wonder
how it feels and sounds
to be a wet frog croaking
among other croaking wet frogs,
goodnight, goodnight, goodnight!
Do sense yourself a part of that fest. 


hans ostrom 2018

Hello, Gray Salamander

Among the events occurring
in the universe today, one featured
a convergence of the life patterns
belonging to a salamander and me.

Ambystoma gracile is the alleged
name of this plump salamander's kind,
habitat--Pacific Northwest. Size of
a small lizard, gray on top, orange

like a fiery sunset underneath.
The head-lamp eyes were firmly
closed, he circular toes
mythically delicate. A chill

had wedged A. gracile between
nap and coma on concrete.
I picked it up by the tail
and moved it near a pink azalea

so crows wouldn't spot it.
It arced its body in slumber
and opened its mouth to mime
complaint before I set it down.

Our meeting has made me
committed to becoming
an affiliate member of the Pacific
Northwest Salamander Society.


hans ostrom 2018