For weeks they came daily; grackles and
vultures swarming in plagues and kettles
descending to take, devour claimed food.
A scold of jays bitching from leafless trees
did nothing to deflect or deter the feedings.
Now they are gone; the migrant portions
of their species; the uneasy, the unsettled,
the searchers. For days by my windows I
stood entranced, aching to leave, to gorge;
imploring them to take me along to soar.
Redbird on waxleaf privet branch calls as he has a billion times past; enticing. Cheer--cheer--cheer--pretty--pretty we mimic, but what is he really saying; mere yakking, indoctrination, concert or berating, teasing, making fun of me as I sit in my closed windowed-box feeling belittled for my lack of a song? Swaying leaves, twitching penumbra, cast by light through my window, dance upon my dull blue wall to an ancient choral refrain. Even leaf-light has a song! What is my song? I don't know the words, the rhythm, the rhyme, the point of worth. Was the first song a mere utterance of awe; wonderment in the presence of sunlight. "Ah! Ah!" will be my song! I sing to the leaves and they freeze for just an instant to listen. Then, crackling into brilliant light slivers, they resume their own soft, dancing song.
I saw an eagle today; not on the nest web-cam I check daily now, but soaring an invisible draft, circling our neighborhood, rising, tipping down, gliding to a near red oak limb revealing in glinting light unique white “bald” head, tail and demeanor. With apt aplomb he dismissed two raucous crow's rantings as they stomped and strutted near limbs. Three swipes of his yellow, hooked beak against his supporting limb and the cursing duo quickly took note, lifting, darting west “as the crow flies” leaving only me and Fuzz to stare; bear witness. Ditch-stink charmed Fuzz; I was in awe alone. Did eagle give me a nod as he glanced my way, arching huge wings for a forward, lifting jump, fanning white, tail-feathers in silent ascension? It seemed to me, there was a mutual greeting; respect hoped for, valued, but not demanded. I would have given a salute if I did such things. We have hope; faith in ultimate good we clutch as a faultless anthem, sang softly, only in sky. afterstanza: Now, another year has flown passed that red oak and I still check out that empty January grey limb. Awe has waned, Fuzz limps and a question remains, only now acknowledged, a yellow beak ripping me: Are there really only Predators and Prey and which....
Thursday:
It’s all gray against gray today.
Gray squirrels run high, hairline limbs
spidering from sweet gum silhouettes’
charcoal sketch against liquid lead clouds:
a seething sea/death gray pock-marked with
barbed seed pods floating like mines
in wait of gray hulled ships
to surprise and explode to brilliant yellow.
Even an anonymous death could brighten this day.
Sunday:
The moment so precious,
yet…..called,
I rise, with expletive, to abandon
the sun and grackles swarm the trees
jeering my concessions,
shaming me,
plopping sweet gum pod’s
barbed, brown blessings,
on a god’s green grass
and my sinner’s head.
Once again, delightful squeaking swarms the trees,
celebrating en masse, here to there; chucked down
by some suspect deity who, for whatever reason,
laments or teases my petering out; my “it is what it is”
Rescued, again, by one with a scratching voice;
compelling a lifting of chin, a prying away of eyes
from ground, from monitored, measured steps;
I search the canopy for Joy: There! She lingers!
Speckle/breasted thrasher chucks the one-eye;
tschuck!…tschuck!…tschuck! he warns and scolds
perceived encroaching. Sorry, I mumble at his cry.
How did I reach this instant, this soul plateau,
accepting censure from an ill-mannered bird….
his chirps articulate, more true than mine;
their spring pure unlike my struggling words
failing to fathom their season, their place in time?
Most conspicuous soarer of Georgia skies
floats for eons circling till I grit my teeth
in expectancy and finally he, snagging
a hot air lift, shoots up straight, ascending
like Jesus, wings stiff with ecstasy,
blood stained beak thrown open to sing
hosannas, but not for my ears. Then more
eons and satiated or fearful of God-light or
despairing still of Paradise lost, a minute
wing-tip-dip spirals him in delirium down
to vanish behind pine’s dark façade;
shade veiled refuge for his grotesquerie.
Grackle
Brazen hundreds flaunt
their stuff, screaming their presence;
conquering the trees.
•
Bluejay
Unsympathetic;
reigning, brassy-blue diva
of the canopy.
•
Bluebird
The blue of God’s eyes;
with cheek-blushed breast, you flutter
in your dainty bath.
•
Crow
Black hole against soft
sky blue as boy-baby blue;
harsh as a night scream.
•
Mourning Dove
Flushed from brush in twos;
rattling chortles of wings lift
them to lowest limbs.
They call in soft glee.
Mistaken for sad laments,
their calls haunt our days.
Skeptical of bliss;
we refuse to hear pure joy
of a gleeful heart.
The hummers are gone; they left by moonlight.
There was no need to sneak away; lodgings,
food was free into perpetuity.
Perhaps the anticipation was way
too much for tiny drumming hearts to bare.
Maybe, they could not sleep like us, as kids,
wide-eyed with thoughts of sunny surf and sand.
I would like to think they darted passed our
window as they were going, peeping at
our dreams as we re-imagined our own
migrations; our reasoning’s back and forth,
battered between the same locales, misgivings
and some forgivings, the same trees for years.
We have our instincts, too, craving the trees.
They must have offered a chirpy goodbye
because I woke knowing something was gone,
lost or forgotten but unsure of what.
Do they rendezvous with old friends and kin
or do connections, commiserations
languish….falter in pursuit of nectar?
Costa Rica! If we could go on an
Eco-tour, we might sip the same flowers
and they might zip-up to us tweeting their
apologies for leaving abruptly.
They did not have to pack, just lift and leave.
Wouldn’t it be great to rise in air
feeling all weight dropping from rising feet
not having to worry about the dogs
or what you’re leaving in the frig to spoil
or if the bills are all paid or if you
show enough affection and concern?
They left three days earlier than last year.
I marked it on the calendar as I
cross off every day anticipating
….or is it gloating over surviving?
I’ve got to stop this crossing off of days.
Belated Words 