Category: Nature

the eagle and the heron

the heron glides
on silent wings
outstretched—
curtains of dusky blue
that gather the air
like an indrawn breath
and, exhaling
with one vast thrust
of endless feathers,
she rides the wild updraft
long neck tucked, S-shaped
above a narrow breast
landing, stalking
the shallow outskirts
of the river’s bounty
with focused stealth
waiting
always waiting

the eagle, vigilant
sharp-eyed, predatory
all talons and beak
her jagged edges, perched
atop the places that divide
beginnings and endings
the thresholds—
where water meets land
earth meets sky
until the hunt;
a blur of chestnut feathers
she’s crowned
head and tail
in white, grasping
with golden feet
each squirming fish
a piece of glistening fruit






September Lament

it’s hard to believe how close we are
to autumn

but the birds
are hunkered down within the canopy
feeling their molt

the vibrant forest, the wild grass
that skirts this overgrown road
will fade and wither

as the sky dulls
and the goldfinches
lose their gleam

you have to hold onto life while you can,
onto the full thrust of it
in the saturated vibrancy of late August
when the heat hangs in the air
like a shroud
as the mosquitoes drill for oil
in your veins

you have to hold on
soon, the chill will return
turning the forest to stone

Orca

I understand the howling emptiness
that rushes toward you
as you swim away,
the child on your back
she’s not a burden

I know what you’re swimming toward
carrying your heavy truth,
the reality not yet sinking in

The love has nowhere to go
except into the quiet shape
that coasts with you
on your necessary quest

The pod knows this
holding you up when you falter
honoring the motionless sorrow
that will never quite leave you
even when her body
is long gone

I know you ache from a grief
heavier than the ocean
I know the darkness
that swallows your days

Take the time you need
the world must be patient

Take the time you need
and know my hands feel you
my eyes see you
my heart sends love and a promise

You can go on, if you choose
but that choice is yours alone

A Fragile Spring

when winter’s cold fingers, at last, uncurl
and spring finally comes, it comes:
buds exploding open in the weak April sun
the sharp air softening,
so many things changing at once
it’s impossible to mark them all

the sky deepening to cobalt at noon,
the raptors circling on warm currents,
the yellowing of goldfinches
the great unfolding–
tulips, magnolia, cherry blossoms
vivid confetti decorating my yard

my own spring is long gone
but I don’t envy this newness
I dread its brevity, its fragility
the threat of spring’s early demise
is my biggest fear
calamity looms – the kind of threat
that destroys the sparrow’s newly made nest
that dries the nectarines on the branch

a dark storm could thrust us
too soon into summer,
with its heavy, saturated days
making short work of this bright innocence

Impatience

sometimes March disappoints, taking
too long to push out the morning chill
letting the cold linger, except at mid-day
when the sky puts on its coat of blue
and the crocuses push through the cold soil
content with the brief warmth
of the noon sun

spring is framed in those first flowers,
in the green of tulips yet to be
and, of course,
the birds know it’s time
the cardinal’s song is changing,
the goldfinches are beginning
to flicker like bright rays of sunlight
through my nectarine tree

today the grass is waking up
greening in patches
like emerald stratus clouds on my lawn
I raked the the spent seed below the feeders
and the breeze against my face
felt gentler, the persistent chill, softer
as if March was sighing into April

The Winter Trail

I’m on the winter trail
plodding forward with aching feet
blinded by sharp sunlight
on endless snow,
alone with my burden.

The lake offers no relief.
Its frozen water mocks my thirst.

Every part of me longs for spring.

I tell myself the lies of the lonely
Imagining that someone, anyone
might slog along with me,
and ease the thick links
of this heavy chain
from my bent shoulders.

By my own reckoning,
my sorrow is so cumbersome,
you will flee from me,
appalled.

Preservation

Observed along the country road,
a bed of russet leaves
beneath the drift and spin of autumn
foreshadowed by an ancient Yew,
its needles green as midsummer
Watching the season so keenly,
Studying the daylight shrink,
October dances toward its finale.
I’m counting on the conifers
to foliate the coming days
while cardinals, like crimson gems,
perch, ornamental, on winter’s doorstep

Wood

If you sit outside long enough
you notice that the trees change,
the creek of aging wood,
the lichen on gnarled branches
even in death, the trees offer refuge
countless perches within exposed branches
a high vantage point to observe
the neighborhood cats
with their fat bodies and languid eyes
The abundance of my backyard surprises me
the tenacity of growth, as if my tiny plot of land
is on the cusp of being consumed,
swallowed by the encroaching mountainside
with its wild dazzle of swaying pines
and the tangled vines that choke
the hickory and ash
I wonder at the strength of trees,
how the wood wants to reclaim it all
this lawn, this house, this feeble garden
it’s likely to succeed