So I See

if one is willing to look
it’s right there
with just a little fine focus:

three cormorants basking by the pond
friends no doubt
and casually handsome
fine pointing
the freshness of the fish

one raccoon
in the fevered throes of death
stumbling down the trail
frightening and
so sadly wrong
in so many ways

a parcel of squirrels
incessant and persistent
in their quest to eat
every last sunflower seed
if not manic what are they

a murder of crows who laugh

at such human folly

proud but not prideful
rightfully private in their ethnicity

two swans
muted
while posing
for an audience of one
showing to all the world
what love is.

all this
and for you

at the low, low price

of nothing.

Fly-wise

Some scientist would tell you
(Maybe it was me?)
That the fly that crosses the room
Zigging and zagging
Bobbing and weaving,
Its wanton wanderings,
Is doing exactly,
Exactly as nature has intended;
No foolish effort
No wasted energy
No time ill spent.
And every effort, if observed and considered
Carefully
Is purposeful and practical in its life ways
And brilliantly, blithefully
Evolved and adapted for its sure
Successful mission in the life of a fly.
 
So stretching this truth to its probable bounds
This wisdom of the ages
Dances and displays all around us each and every day
There, but for the asking…
 
And so I consider the efforted attentiveness
That can be given to such study,
If we open our hearts and minds,
Or the foolishness found in our human ignorance
Of such wisdoms…
Begging
Can we learn to live and be fly-wise?
Or is our peril folly
And likely to lead us to
Our ultimate demise?

Act Two

Now I have found two of you
Or at least you have shown yourselves…
Like in the second act of a play or pageant
Acted out in the hot days of summer.
And the second act is full of dialog:
A discussion back and forth
A call and response chorus
Of an operetta,
For I hear the music
But do not speak the language.
But by the staging and the costuming I can infer
That perhaps you are parent and child
In the throes of avian adolescents
Working out the final solution whereby wings
Flap and you separate
Both greater for it?
Or maybe you are siblings and squabbling
Over turf or food or the keys to the coming kingdom?
Pleasantly distracted by the drama,
I am keeping my ears keen and my eyes
To the sky.

Calls and Tokens

It is tomato season.
Vines are pendulous with fruit
Colored like the margin of a rosy sunrise
Crowning above a forest canopy.
It is an expectant time.
Overhead you continue to call out.
-It has been several weeks now-
You give out a two note crescendo
A half-step up
Sounding like it is issued from a rusty slide-whistle,
A squeaky garden gate,
Not songful
Just barely an exhale.
Who do you seek?
And what do you want?
You are young perhaps
Needing to let go, but fledged forlorn,
Willfully abandoned and sent on your way…
You glide across a sky light
And then perch, showing yourself.
I raise my hands full of tomatoes
And offer them in a fruitless gesture:
I am with you
But I cannot come to your aid.

Behind the Soft Green Curtain

Spring has drawn a curtain such
that I cannot see far or deep into the woods
and even though in February grey and brown
I long for her nubile leaves and exploring vines
that satisfy my need for renewal,
I secretly hold dear the moments
viewed on cold trails
or searching through frosted glass
peering past the rows of rough bark
and gnarled branch hoping to find
seeking to know
the secrets of the hills
and boulders,
caressing their broad shoulders
and cambered thighs
loving them and knowing that
they will soon drop behind the soft green curtain
finding their flirtatious privacy only
in the company of the growing chaos of the forest.

Late November Afternoon

There is a comforting certainty
In this late November afternoon.

The earth is relenting its color
To the sky
With an almost gaudy display
As if to proclaim
Farewell!
Good night, to this departing day.
While life on a smaller scale, close by,
Settles itself
With a hope for rest and renewal.
As it wagers on the dawn.

Mice snuggle
Back to belly
In their milkweed down beds
In appropriated bluebird boxes.
Crows lumber overhead
Crossing the early crescent moon
Soon to roost and whisper secret stories,
While sparrows dart in the underbrush
Making final adjustments in their space,
Giving one last fluff to their feathers
They will cool with the night and be still.
A small bee that a month ago would
Have been lost in a grander world
Of blossoms and flying things
Now sits solitary
On a stray dandelion,
Resting still
Within the grasp
Of those golden teeth.

A slow wind turns a hanging leaf,
A friend responding to an unspoken word,
Guaranteeing in benediction
Continued movement forward.

No Longer

No longer larva or bud
But in full bloom
And wide-winged,
Two companions meet
And in the passion throes of pollination
With blossoms bending
Nectar rising
Proboscis thrusting,
They drink deeply in
Such give and take
And then move on.

A Springtime Story and King of the Maples

A Springtime Story

Hidden and but subtly told
your springtime story does unfold,
A rare feat of pure alchemy
is there for those who care to see.

By eating seeds of whisker size
a transformation before the eyes,
Of feathers muted black and gray
turning gold a bit each day,
Then finally your true colors show
a feast of beauty for all to know.

****

King of the Maples

On some fine day soon
the sun will stream down
a wedge of light
thrust through the gray bellied clouds
and pour upon your golden shoulders
and crown you king of the maples
amidst the red bud regalia
where you sometimes hold court.

You do not fear to share yourself
among us commoners
and distribute your riches almost carelessly
but none the less generously
and by doing so
you sometimes save a soul or two.

For you have labored
in fields afar
and battled against the same hard foes
and in your soft mannered victory
you have truly turned to gold.