I can’t tell you how long
it’s been since I’ve seen a snake around here, mostly because my sense of time has limits of a decade.
I read that they are plentiful
in the Everglades, hunted as an invasive species, which probably stands to reason since our hatred is by now
of Biblical proportions, and we
have learned to love goats, so, it is the snake that now is consigned to be the source of all our errors and failings.
And were that not enough,
you cannot trust what a snake says for obvious reasons, but you must ignore that the hummingbird beloved by all, also has a forked tongue.
Walking through a nature preserve
like Wakodahatchee Wetlands you must always keep a sharp eye.
The birds are everywhere, they are
unavoidable and even the alligators, imagining themselves coy are
soon enough easily recognized,
snouts appear just above the surface wary eyes scanning the shore.
Here you are also surrounded
by poems, but they are far more able to hide, among the eggs
the wood stork carefully tends,
in the purple iridescence of the gallinule, trailing behind
the uplifting wings of the great
blue heron as she lifts skyward, and in the spray of feathers
the snowy egrets dangle always
drawing our eyes like a bride’s diaphanous veil, but we, at
a loss for words in the midst
of all of this, cannot see them awaiting us to give them flight
it was so much easier when I could still
imagine myself a bird, untethered and free to take flight on a whim.
In dreams I often flew, no Icarus
but a raptor, peering down, seeing with a clarity the earth denied me.
Now my roots have taken hold
in the enmeshing soil plunged deep and spread tendrils anchoring me,
and even thought of flight has been
buried deeply in memory, and I am like others of my species, left
to maneuver through my life knowing
that true freedom is waiting, but above and always now out of reach.
aging, birds, Children, Memory, Myth, Nature, Philosophy, Photography, Poem, psychology, Time
Last night, all the romantic
comedies worth watching on Amazon and Netflix having already been seen, many twice
we had no choice but to opt
for a coming of age tale on Netflix accompanied by the mellifluous tones of Sir David Attenborough.
In my dreams last night there was
a debate between the Gentoo and Emperor Penguins as to which was the more enrapturing,
and a Greek chorus of krill suggested
neither was worth our time or effort, but the pod of Right Whales ended their incessant commentary.
As I awoke to the cry of the limpkin
he reminded me that the ice cap is ever shrinking thanks to my kind, so I had best learn a few dirges.
birds, Dream, Humor, language, mind, Nature, Photography, Poem, Science, Time, weather
The sun is shining brightly today,
and the sky, with only the odd passing cloud, is that certain blue.
Do not ask me to describe that certain
blue, but be assured it is not exactly the blue that you are imagining right now.
Even if I would describe it, in some
infinite detail, your vision of it would at best be a near approximation.
The gull that swooped in and stole
the crust of bread I overtoasted this morning knew exactly what the blue was.
Birds generally, and gulls in particular
have deep understanding of blue that you, my friends, cannot even imagine.
He had always imagined covering
his body in feathers. He knew it wouldn’t make him able to take flight, but it would, he was certain grant him a certain lightness that gravity and daily life denied him. And he knew that once covered in his dreams he could soar free of the restrictions that his conscious mind imposed on him, restrictions, he knew, that were the only reason he wasn’t even at that moment peering down at the world while moving across the sunlit sky of an autumn afternoon.
The small house fly has
no arachnophobia only once in life.
In the Norway Spruce
pine cones threaten to descend. Squirrels sit waiting.
In the sunlit park
the small dog watches the man go fetch the thrown ball
Maple leaves emerge
almost certain that winter is now history
A rain of petals
cherry snow covers the ground we await the fruit.
Mockingbirds greet the morning
Great Blue Herons stare
imagining their voices
night sweetly welcome the dawn
The great temple bell
awaits the morning, the monk,
its daily purpose
cast deep within the metal
always verging on release
Smoke of incense too
prostrates itself to Buddha
soon a morning breeze
or the freedom of the sky
I stand still, staring, as
you stand as still staring back,
neither of us yielding in what
will be a long played-out game
on a day of intense sunshine.
I am certain you will concede
will depart, and I am ready,
much as you assume I will tire
as my kind always do,
and turn to other things.
You have all day, this is
after all, your home, and I
have that camera around
my neck and arms growing
heavy keeping it poised
to watch your wings unfurl
as you take skyward, but
you are as close as I will
come to free flight and you
soon honor me with your departure.
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