Ferns unfurl,
uncurling slowly to a tune of their own making.
— C.Birde, 4/16
Ferns — Images
Maple Light — An Image
Maple’s leaves, still young and pale and sticky with light.
(Dedicated to my friend and walking and writing companion, who notices the small things and gently encourages. Thank you!)
Aqualibrium Lost– A Poem
Too soon, too hot —
where addled Winter lingered,
imperious Summer now intrudes.
One rainy April day, or two —
a month that should run
with thawed soil,
dewy damp for all that awakens
thirsty after a season’s rest.
To the south, the earth drowns;
here, drawing the trowel to transplant
clutches of Forget-Me-Nots,
I release gasps of dust.
Fret not —
the Reservoir is full,
the little creeks run;
but I am no Aesopian Grasshopper,
able to fiddle away my cares,
nor that Fable-ist’s industrious ants.
My worries wake me
in the too-warm night to run,
fleet as deer,
through a dry wood,
star-shod hooves raising ribbons
of skeletal leaves
to mark their passage.
–C.Birde, 4/16
Well Rooted — An Image
This old beech tree has snaked roots deep into the earth over such a long period of time, it seems to anchor its bit of forest in place. Around it, scores of robins dip their heads to dart and scurry through the leaf litter, while, in contrast, the tree itself moves too slowly for any eye to see — ever upward, ever inward.
Snake in the Grass — A Dream
The path winds through a meadow, an earthy ribbon parting green. Breeze-touched, the grasses sway and stir, licking my calves with rough tongues as I walk. Though I maintain a steady pace, I fall farther behind with each stride — his legs are longer than mine, cover the ground more quickly. Already, he is a silhouette cresting the gentle slope; his shadow, stretched toward me, an illusory bridge. Both withdraw steadily.
Following the path’s gentle curves, I continue unhurried. The snake, however, brings me up short. A enormous, bright green astonishment, it is coiled and piled in the center of the path several yards ahead. I call out my discovery, but my companion dismisses my concern.
“Go around it,” he says. His voice is muffled by breeze as he disappears over the hill’s lip.
“But what if it’s poisonous?” I must pitch my voice, placing hands to either side of my mouth to project.
A rising tide of wind diminishes his response, if he has responded at all. Stealing myself to circumvent the snake, I see there are now three snakes. Two brilliant red snakes — similar in size and girth and heavy coils — have arranged themselves on the path to either side of the green, one before it, the other after. Stop. Go. Stop. As I stand, dumbfounded, the snake furthest along the path rears vertically upon muscular coils and lashes out at the central snake, sinking fangs deep into the latter’s neck. The two snakes thrash and convulse in a confusion of green and red until the green snake lies limp.
The danger is clear. There is no “going round”. And, as suddenly as I have this realization, I stand in stead indoors, at a polished wooden counter. All around, the steady pulse and throb of laughter, conversation; the polite clink of utensils on dishes, of ice in water glasses. Suffuse light pours through long, wide windows — the only illumination in this expansive, crowded room.
As the young woman behind the counter checks me in for my stay, my walking companion arrives. He unwraps crinkling sheets of thick white paper, empties several snake fillets onto the smooth counter. Pale, pleated flesh glistens softly against dark wood. He informs the young woman that he’d like the fillets plated up for lunch. Stunned, I immediately remind him that the snake was poisoned — not a good recipe for consumption.
Dismissing my concerns — again — he picks a fillet up between his fingers and bites off a large mouthful, chews, swallows.
Narcissus — An Image
A nodding head that crowns a whip of green stem, Narcissus dreams during sun and shower alike — echo of light on the bright days, softly luminous on the gray.
Aeolian Harvest — A Poem
An unkindness of wind —
no gentle breeze,
nor exiting lamb,
but a sundering;
A dispassionate tearing
that strips bud and blossom
and exposes the maple’s
soft and aging heart.
I cannot sleep
for the arboreal cries it exacts,
for its moan among
the pine’s fringed and lashing limbs,
for its persistence upon
the window’s too-thin panes.
It wants entry.
It has torn through
one-hundred years of wood
and would add a bone —
or several dozen —
to its discards.
–C.Birde, 4/16
Morning Walk — Images
We wore the morning lightly, pearl gray on our shoulders, as we entered the golden wood. Our steps raised small ivory- and lavender-winged moths. Smudge of Bluebird among uplifted branches. (If one should ever alight in my hand and request a portrait, I will gladly oblige.) Song of Red-Winged Blackbird. Chickadee, Titmouse, White-Throated Sparrow. Robin and Nuthatch and Blue Jay.
Gently, the path wandered around roots and over smooth-backed stones. Patches of periwinkle poked through leaf litter, and ferns unfurled green fronds. Trees garbed in tiny floral buds of scarlet, lime-green, pale yellow. Evidence of a reluctant Spring.
Creeks slowly remembering themselves, seeping in trickles to fill their beds and the reedy marsh below. The Spring Peepers’ chorus — mere weeks ago, a throb of voices issuing from any damp pocket — now reduced, here and there, to solo artists.
Shallow tumble of earthen banks studded with skunk cabbage — sweet fragrance laced the air, but the cabbages made no to claim to its creation. Ribboned among their hooded numbers, a garter snake gathered clouded sunlight.
Ancient dryad bid us good morning, arched stiffened limbs in gesture toward a path through the marsh. Though presently dry, it would not remain so with the season’s continued unfolding.
Thus we walked, land dipping slightly. Fringe of greening wood falling back and away, giving way to passable marsh. Skeletal gray trees thrust up through pale interweave. Overhead, clouds gathered, sky brooded. Forest of parchment reeds and grass surrounded, leaning against each other in quickening wind to speak in rasps. We stood amidst that motion, that rustling sigh.
We gathered what we could — in sensation and memory — to store away as need arises. When next we return, our steps will pass over familiar ground, but all will have changed. And as observant as we attempt to be, as present as we will endeavor to be, our limited senses will miss so very much.
Perfection — A Poem
Hastening
after that slender snippet
of dried grass
that slipped from
his grasp,
he tumbles from
the roof’s spine,
scrabbles over shingles
giving chase —
and it eludes,
that straw-pale length,
so perfect,
so well suited to
his task,
that he persists
and dives,
frantically parting
damp air
on drawn wings
till both settle
upon green-fringed
soil.
Clutched in
bent-wire claw,
he soars to the eaves
to stuff it in
amongst a mass of
similar
lengths and bits —
that perfect piece.
Silly sparrow.
Such display over one
blade so like
another.
But —
do we,
ourselves,
not do
the very same?
— C.Birde, 3/16
Sun Over Obelisk — An Image
The duality of time — its elemental truth, its illusion — marked by the sun’s certain progress. Below and apart, we stand stunned, pointing.