Wednesday, October 27, 2021

Over the river and through the woods

 

Jerry and I spent a week (a week!) watching the light shift through the trees near the Meramac River in Crawford County Missouri, just outside Cuba. We had a charming little cabin on a hill above the river. Aside from the tornado warning on Sunday it was an uneventful week, plenty of sleep, lots of listening to the world, watching the rain. And noting that when Jerry says he wants one meal of only hot dogs with no judgment he tops out at three. Here's what else happened:

Outside the kitchen door a beetle of some variety watches me, as I move to take its picture it turns. Paparazzi not wanted here.

The Meramac River gurgles and glints; in the understory squirrels are roughing up leaves, moving that prime acorn to another hiding spot. The leaves drift down. A tufted titmouse, a chickadee, a sparrow feed. Crows and Blue Jays chat loudly not coming close enough to share their sheen. Cattle call, the long hollow sound echoes over the river. A train rumbles.




Dusk. Coyotes are still warming up, a few yips, a few barks. Truck noises carry over the hill. Looking up the tree branches are holding the perfect sky and stars just blooming. An owl tests the acoustics, I call back, silence as I listen for wings.

Overnight rain splashes through the trees, cold tries out its toes creeping around the cabin. The dog that was barking nearby is caught on the yard cam.

And wind and wind and wind and then the day wakes to mist over the river, up through the trees around the cabin. The leaves have been lazy this year, turning colors late, the season shifting to a new way.

Tuesday morning, beside the road, up the hill, the old snag is topped with sunbathers, round shouldered and shiny headed buzzards getting what warmth they can before heading out to search for carrion. One spreads its wings and turns slightly, the wing span catching light creating shadow. Later I see them far above the trees, riding currants.

A week here has been a good tune out, a good rest.





Tuesday, October 19, 2021

Great sadness envelopes the night


 
Empty nest and hollow sky

“Under our ribs our hearts are bloody stars.” ~~ Joy Harjo

Say you swallowed the moon like a wafer
and all the luminosity and myth is in you absorbed
through membrane into blood. The moon
in all its phases, burning through
the body with a fullness and ache.

In you, bile rises and falls pulled by new gravity;
sickness and relief in equal draw.
How this satellite rolls over your abdomen
like miniature elbows and knees. The same
intensity that a child brings in its
daily recess along the womb’s ridge.

Say the moon moves into your spleen
the sudden absence of light gnaws a hole that grows
between lung and rib, like scaffolding torn
away. Your heart becomes as lonely
as the sky, begins to miss that dedicated path,
translucent face, the dim arc of light.

Then great sadness envelopes the night,
anticipating those cold velvet depths,
reaching for a brightness that no longer
orbits your world.


~~~
Taking a Meanders break for a little meandering of other sorts. Be kind, be safe.

Thursday, October 7, 2021

Those little jerks

 

It’s the end of hummingbird time. With the late sunrise and early dusk, when these beauties leave it almost seems like a personal affront. It’s not even cold yet. But flowers are wrapping up their work and the insects that sustain those little jerks are also disappearing. There’s been no activity at the feeders for at least two days. Other birds, especially sparrows and finches, are amping up their activity. Off the deck we have two lilacs where all the birds huddle and hide, flit and fly, sing and sun. Sometimes its as though the bushes themselves want to take off so many birds are in there.

The sunflowers still have seeds. Yesterday and today there has been much feasting happening out my office window. I get distracted, I’ve been working on a short story and some poems and it seems that every few minutes something requires attention:




Here’s an old poem that highlights hummingbirds. Be safe.

Theory of lightning

The bedside light lit itself, our first indication of storm.
Then a swarm of hummingbirds shadowed the screen,
flares of lacquer gleamed as lightning collided with night.
Masses of wing, red throats and green, ghostly
in the darkness, shimmering even as darkness returned.

So much commotion, that we opened the window
listened to their charges and feints, the high squeak
of defeat as they left the feeders, which flamed redder
with each flash and with each arc more
and more birds arrived. Their gathering
made our earlier disagreement shatter.
This surprise of so many hungry bodies
flooded senses, lifted the anger.

Just as swiftly the tempest broke.
Hail and wind forced the melee
to the ground, where like a magic trick
gone wrong they scattered, gone by the next burst.

I leaned back from the squall, closed
the window, your arms enclosed me,
our bodies became the cage
for those hundred, diminutive hearts.

 


Monday, October 4, 2021

Mostly I was happy

This morning as the sun was chasing long shadows across the world, a bird hit the window. I looked out and there was no small body crumpled to the ground, or flailing nearby, but on the window’s screen a wee bit of down fluttered. Whew, I wouldn’t have to go out. Not yet. Not that it was cold, or raining or in some other way a day I didn’t want to enter. Mostly I was happy no creature needed me. Not that a bird would; if it was injured, I would be obligated to ball up a towel, find a small box and set it into a nest until it felt better. There are cats slinking about, I couldn’t leave it on the ground.

When I was younger (7, 9, 11) I couldn’t leave my horses (Breyer models) in the window overnight. I wouldn’t let my stuffed animals sit lonely on a shelf, alone and uncovered; everyone got paired up or had a pod of friends. I feared for the cat when I knew it was snowing and blowing. And then too, if someone wasn’t home, or came home too late, I fretted. I couldn’t sleep as I imagined a life suddenly without them. Eventually this went away, these feelings as I realized (or felt) that no one else had these hanging over them. Of course, who did I talk to about it: no one. The worrying came back eventually, intensified when Issac was born – baby nightmares: a missing child, a car that can’t stop, handing the baby to someone who vanished like smoke – and these dreams persisted for a number of years. I blame the mess that pregnancy does to your mind and body. Your psyche goes into hyper alertness. I’m sure it is always such, for everyone. Ultimately it eases off (this dread, this limbo), I feel that people are safe. (Mostly safe, bearably safe?) I can harden my heart so it doesn’t require me to wander at 3AM into the darkness I can’t break. I can’t make nests for those who have flown. But I’m always ready. That never goes away.

Angels and Saints

Angels in hawk feathers
swoop along the Mad River.
You mouth the name Mad,
mad, mad until your body
vibrates like a wire.

You see hawks perched
on mile markers and fence posts
dining on field mice, fluffing
their feathers for warmth.

All along the highway they mock
your devotion.

Right before crossing into Ohio
a saint disguised as a three-legged coyote
limps onto a frozen stream. You stop
your car and then he stops, head low watching.
You mutter about walking on water
and a truck startles you, spooks the coyote.
He continues his sad journey through the cold.
Looking back once, yellow eyes meet yours,
a blessing, now you can go on.






Enter freely and of your own will

Classes were scheduled to start on Tuesday, January 16th, unfortunately, that first day saw the school closed due to cold and snow. So all c...