My heart’s beats —
moss-covered and fern-filled,
deeply wooded;
clasped in pink granite and
ultramarine;
bound by star-pierced night —
I have brought the Island
home with me.
— C.Birde
Rooted — A Poem
North Bubble Hike — Images
Top of the North Bubble…
Swallowing Stone…
Leaning over Eagle Lake…
Looking back…
Roots hug Earth.
September 2015
Electron on Day Mountain — A Truth
Walking the Electron up Day Mountain —
four nimble feet landing in six places at once,
while we, behind,
mere bipeds,
plod by comparison,
one foot after the other set
upon the soil with intention.
Pause near the summit —
cool air, warming sun;
lunch on the rough slope of pink granite
that spills gently off
amidst uplifted pine boughs.
Huge blue water in the distance,
deep and sparkling, scattering light.
On our feet again —
the Electron recharged, re-energized,
pulling us along in her wake,
in six directions at once.
–C.Birde
The Tarn Trail (Kane Path) — A Truth
Boulders for stepping stones pressed
against the Tarn’s edge;
Smooth waters dimpled and pocked
with browned lily pads and
rusted grasses rippled
by insistent breeze;
Break upon woodland
of lump-barked ashes,
rough maples and fine-needled pines
lit by fleet, dappled light;
Rock- and root-strewn path
of hard-packed earth
carpeted with fallen leaves
undulating, wave-like;
The air, wildflower scented —
asters, goldenrods, and hawkweed;
Leopard frog amidst the leaf mould;
All sounds of humanity,
except our own,
fallen away.
–C.Birde
Beech, Lit — An Image
Beech, lit — by morning sun;
Gently brushed by the shadows of its companions;
Untouched by the day’s heat yet to come.
— C.Birde,
Tourne Park, Sept. 2015
Feeding Catbird — A Dream
The woman who lives here rehabilitates sick and injured catbirds — I am delighted and, in my heart of hearts, a little jealous. A single sweeping glance allows me to take in this forest-hued room in its entirety — dusky green walls, chocolate couches and carpet, finely-grained wooden work table and leaning wooden shelves. Windows are arranged horizontally along one wall near the ceiling. Pale fingers of light stream and puddle as if through tree limbs and shifting leaves.
The rehabilitator allows me to assist in feeding the injured catbirds, instructing me to take mouthfuls of raw green spinach and dark brown raisins, to chew thoroughly, masticating them. Pursing my lips around this mixture, one of the injured catbirds flies forward from the shelves. Wings aflutter, it hovers before me and slips its sooty wedge of beak between my lips. It sips the spinach and raisins. He’s so close, I see clearly and directly into his bead-bright black eyes; I see his smooth charcoal cap and little russet undertail. The breeze of his wings fans my face, and occasionally the whisper touch of a feather grazes my cheek.
Note: For eight years now — and hopefully for the foreseeable future — I have been feeding raisins to visiting catbirds in my yard. If you are interested, and have not already seen my earlier post on this, you might want to read “Days of Song & Raisins”.
Summer Song — A Poem
Wreath my hair in butterflies,
let wildflowers garland my throat,
weave green-gold grasses
about my wrists,
and place birdsong
in my heart.
Read to me the Moonbeam tome,
let fireflies light my path,
recite to me in crickets’ chant,
and stitch starlight
as my wrap.
For my tongue tastes of switch grass
and falling leaves,
my foxfire smile has dimmed —
I watch the days so lightly pass,
and hear Autumn
in Summer’s breeze.
–C.Birde
Sky Blue Sky — A Truth
The color of truth and loyalty,
of music and despair,
of cool shadow and faded jeans.
The color of periwinkles and forget-me-nots,
of jays and buntings,
of whales and damselflies.
The color of my mother’s eyes.
The color of topaz and tourmalines,
of the trapped hearts of glaciers,
of the birdbath beneath the maple.
The color of ink and smoke,
of Persians and water,
of the singular month’s twice full moon.
The color of this morning’s uninterrupted
Summer sky stretched overhead
like a promise.
–C.Birde
Hummingbird — A Truth Embellished
Weeding, uprooting the undesired, collecting their bruised green bodies in one fisted mass, transferring them to the bin.
Pausing on the stream of bricks, eyes slowly tracking rightward to glimpse, just paces away, beneath the half-laden arch —
Little faerie spirit, little winged soul, dressed in a gown of moss and cobwebs,
Sipping from the slender red tubes of native honeysuckle, hovering before each in turn,
Wings a smudged vapor of motion.
She turns mid-air, pauses and flits closer,
Closer…
A mere pace away,
Entranced, we face each other…
She reaches into an elfin pocket,
Withdraws a miniaturizing glass to view me,
the Giantess.
–C.Birde
Treebeard’s Toes — An Image
