It comes as no surprise,
Mallards do what they do.
“Ah, there’s ice on the water…
Let’s swim around it.”
I don’t mean to put words in their bills
Perhaps they had a pre-dawn meeting
And charted their destination
Set an agenda?
Something sends them this way
But likely not determined by their
“Executive function.”
No, something deeper drives them
A clock with no chime?
A compass with no needle?
A course with no plan?
Ducks swim
And humans wonder why.
The wind is scouring the steel -gray lake
Nature’s game of give-and-take,
The last of autumn’s sun soaked heat
It starts it ends and so’s complete,
Out of the chops the steam blows back
To the blue beyond on its own track,
This happens every day we know
But not so obviously a show,
Given free as if to prove
Of bigger things on constant move,
And so too a bit of me blows by
As I look on, cold too but dry.
Love today
Regret tomorrow.
Discretion is so devious
Fear fed
It steals
For survival’s sake
From what is
On behalf of what might be.
Down in the toad hole
Is a good place to breathe,
Drawing in the strong darkness,
Living through the skin,
Celebrating the patient,
As if
It was always meant to be …
This place
Is a day past part way but
Not too far gone,
Just a bit removed,
Retreated,
Quantum slow,
Snowfall silent,
It is a vantage
From which both safety and uncertainty
Can be known.
It is a reptilian place,
A place to hunker-down.
Ear ring guy pops open
the first Bud of the day from the 12 pack
On the trunk of a beat up Volvo
No pretense here
Beginning the numb down
At 10:15 AM.
John Walker and Sons and I are
Watching across the parking lot
Witnesses to a steady stream of congregants
Sacramentally tampering down the brewing tempest
Brown bags in hand
We keep our doubts and fears mostly private this morning
Except for our soft cries and
Our silent anguishes
As we wait vainly for our savior to arrive.
I hear he is coming
Sometime later this month...
Meanwhile there is always Bud.
The sycamores come earthward soon
They say goodbye and tawny down
They are not shy nor do they tease.
Their story is of letting go
Of what was once flushed bright in green
They give up and accept their change.
The maples hang by threads up high
As if to say “just one more day.”
And so I am amused by them
Turning red, then brown, then down
These sunsets beckon us goodbye
Once blushed against the cobalt sky
Their story is of holding on
Fearful of the days to come.
The beech persists throughout the year
They carve their names upon the heart
Both green and brown are seen above
They charm us with their dignity
Leaves rattle against the wind and cold
Their story is so often told
New life is born out of the old
By holding tight then letting go.
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