The gray day presses
against
the curved pane of my brow,
A low-pressure ache
in residence grinding
behind
my right eye.
And I —
who love the rain —
feel only the damp,
the permeating chill
that creeps into my being,
that even sleep and a cup
of good, hot tea
cannot
relieve.
— C.Birde
We walked this morning. Two bipeds, one quadruped, together breathing in a mild mid-morning.
Rattlesnake Meadow flickered with a wind’s breath that slipped between blown cattails. Snowbirds tittered and darted with sparrows too quick, too subtle for my eye to name.
A Red-tailed Hawk skimmed the meadow’s reed-sawn edge to roost in a slow-decaying tree. Patient, he surveyed the landscape. So much hidden within those pale grassy blades — I missed the Snowy Egret; I’m certain he did not.
At our walk’s end, a white-tailed deer wove ahead across our path, unconcerned by our intrusion. A fortunate start to a late-November day.
Earthbound,
grounded —
the sea stretched and foaming before us,
slope-shouldered dunes whispering
at our backs —
We stood side by side,
sand tugging toes,
necks craning
to lift squinting vision up,
to see —
To witness
myth and fancy
spread over the wide blue expanse of sky,
riding subtle, fingering breezes
at the ends of tethered lines.
— C.Birde
Sunlit maple —
An arboreal song composed in dazzling, gold-leaf splendor.
–C.Birde, 11/15
Yes.
I see the cracks,
the chips and fissures.
Tattered edges, fraying seams.
I hear the noise,
the thrum and tumult
near-constant as sea tide.
It breaks my heart.
It compels me to clear my eyes
and strengthen my resolve
to magnify those signs,
however small,
of persistent
hope and
beauty.
— C.Birde
Arrow-tall Hickory pelts the earth with its potential offspring. In childhood, I spent many a day beneath just such a tree as squirrel or chipmunk or blue jay; peeling back thick, green, four-petaled husks till my fingernails were tarnished; cracking open the small taupe-brown orbs within; picking out and eating the sweet nutflesh.
Southward,
we chased Autumn,
through burnished, narrowed light
beneath an escort of sprung-coil,
gloss-winged birds.
We pursued Her flame-leafed trail —
a coy wink,
a sly step —
until we lost Her among
gnarled live-oaks
and regiments
of soaring,
sentinel pines.
— C.Birde
Let the leaves collect
at my feet
in their rustling,
scuttling
tumble.
May my skies froth
with rivers
of eddying,
harbinger
blackbirds.
Fill my cup with Autumn —
but allow
Spring to reside
in my heart;
Summer,
in my bones.
–C.Birde
The Four Sisters twine limbs
against the elemental sky
and weave roots
to part Earth
with slow and steady certainty.
They hold the memory of years,
of an age,
in their woody flesh,
girdled within their torsos
in concentric rings.
They do not complain,
nor pass judgment,
nor beg favor
as I pass between their knees,
beneath their shadow lattice.
Yet always,
they return my greeting in
their rustling,
multi-leafed chorus.
–C.Birde
I walked, this morning, with Autumn,
Her chill hand in mine,
Her breath cool on my cheek.
She wore as mantle the muted blue sky
flocked with dove-gray cloud.
We marked our steps in asters,
goldenrod, and foamy white snakeroot.
“Fret not,” she said,
“over Winter’s approach.”
Her voice rustled in sunset hues.
“Heed the crickets’ chant —
“still time still time still time.
“Harvest the cooling air.
“Gather the stretched-long rays
“of enduring sun,
“And abide.”
In downward drift around us,
the cider leaves collected,
And all the forest
breathed.
— C.Birde
