Rumor, just an old poem about Turkey Buzzards

 

Rumor

The sun breaches the horizon
and an adobe building turns orange,
a color previously reserved for Fall leaves
or certain butterflies that migrate
when the equinox moves them.

I huddle close to the wall
as though the flush will create heat,
watch the stand of cottonwoods
looming over the creek bed, dry these
summer months, and wait
for turkey buzzards.

                                    They arrive
as the sun starts to give off warmth
they land as delicately as doves
onto the branches. From this vantage
they watch the desert waken. From
here they rest, hunched as old men
over their soup, black feathers soaking
up light as though that too was part
of the diet.

There will be some death somewhere
here today, some miscalculation that will
allow them to depart, lead by the scent
of carrion or perhaps something fresher,
which they will gather around like a ladies’ tea
pulling apart their meal like gossips.

The heart is a concussed cardinal

No thing really needs us. Not the ladybug crawling on my wall, the stink bugs I continually throw out the door or the stunned cardinal I cradled and placed in a nest made of paper towels inside a shoe box after her collision with the window. Best to let nature handle it, to wait for her to “come around”. But because my yard is in the cat zone I had to go out after twenty minutes and move her. (I don’t need to start my month with that on my mind.) She didn’t try to get away as I spoke low to her It’s okay, it’s okay and then took the box to the garage where it was quiet and dry and warm. I set a timer for and hour and a half and Googled animal rescue and wild bird sanctuary in case she needed more help. When the men from the Salvation Army came to pick up a donation, I went to move her from the shelf in the garage and I heard one peep, two peeps and then a lot of box activity. I took her to the deck, put her down and opened the box, she hopped onto the edge. I left, showed the two men what they were here for, went through my standard banter: Do you like the job, are you staying busy, do you have a lot of pickups today. When they finished and drove off, I went back out to the deck. She was still on the box, facing the rest of the birds, I started to lift the box to the railing and that’s when she turned her head and looked at me and flew off.

Whew.  

Wouldn’t it be nice if it was possible to put all worries inside a box until they were ready to fly away? Maybe if we treated those worries like injured beings, we’d be kinder about them, more willing to look for how to help. I think about what size of box I’d need for some of these. Is the hardened worry about my son fitting for a ring box, it’s concentration and clarity closer to diamond than not; does it get the giant sleep-eating monster size box that Sweetums might require? Like the bird in a box metaphor would there be a signal when it’s time to open the lid? What’s the shelf life of estrangement? Is there an Estrangement Anonymous group? Can I start the EA charter? The heart is open in two sections, the old much scarred full of baggage and regret and the new full of fresh wounds and double regrets.  One part of my heart knows it will never have to beat the same, the other hopes it can, please, please beat the same again. Sigh.

The heart is a concussed cardinal nesting on Bounty and waiting to feel better so it can fly away.

That’s a sad poem. Here’s a another, that is sadder for that ending. 😐

Poem for a son, the T-shirt

The tag reads: “Wash in your mother’s tears.”
If you remember what her hands smelled
of as she tucked you in, perhaps your
own tears will well and spill. Don’t be ashamed.

Two vivid moments: one the joy, joy like bird
flight or that orange light of dawn after a hard
storm of waking to your smile. And now the opposite:
despair. What to say to hear your voice.

This is the soup of emotion the heart swims in,
despair that makes you write soup of emotion:
that kind of thing.

Welcome November

Last week I noticed that Dark-eyed Juncos are back. I love watching these snappily dressed little birds and now throw a handful of seed out for them, though the amount that is dropped from the feeders would probably be fine. And then Saturday when I was out giving the jays some peanuts there was a bald eagle making lazy loops very low, around the cul-de-sac, not something I see a lot in my neighborhood, usually I see them far off in transit. And then just yesterday the blackbirds that fly over morning and night are busy with their work. I wrote this last year:

I want to say the hundred blackbirds landing
on the golden tree and the too bright half-moon
hung over the pine and the breeze that feels
new and fresh over the world are positive signs.

And I suppose it is all about the coming cold (frost will be here tonight or tomorrow), the light that is already too late in the morning and heading home much too soon in the afternoon. Those ends of the year things we roll into are popping up too. Today we went to the eye doctor, our third in three years as we try to find “our” doctor. I think we found our guy. He and Jerry bonded over SEC football (his son is at Mississippi State, getting a degree as a golf pro, that ‘s a thing, we looked it up). And we liked the vibe and care in the office, which is slightly important too. I also like that the office is just about a mile away, so we can walk over.

And once home, I brought the plants into the garage that have been adoring the heat and sun all summer. I’ll cut them back, repot and then bring them inside, no cats to avoid this year.

All day I’ve been trying to focus on a residency that I’m applying for, trying to rethink how and why and what. I’ve relooked other statements I’ve written before, but this seems different. It’s like the nearly two years of being so away from the world makes it hard to consider getting back in…and articulate why. Trying to deep think it I was helped by the picture of the inside of my eye which resembles a fantastic river system or a weird tree. It seemed to lead me places. I must ask the doctor if I can have a copy. But I’ve a few weeks to consider how to do this. And so many long nights to dream on it.

Be safe, take care, welcome to November.

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.

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.

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.

 

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.