Lifted by flight and song
COLD WEATHER FRIENDS
The juncos are back.
It feels like winter.
They’re sheltering in
The bushy blue spruce
Where finches have nested
In balmier weather.
They won’t fly south
In retreat from the cold
But keep on the move
Seeking out seeds
In sizable flocks
Giving us hope
Bringing us cheer
For another new year.
ON THE CUSP OF SPRING
It’s snowing again and yet
The yellow crocus has bloomed
On the lawn, the finches are back
To their nest in the blue spruce.
Flocks of robins have landed
Each to claim his purlieu
His own particular tract
In which to cock his head
And listen for worms. The bands
Of redwings have returned
To the pond. We hear their chirr.
A bevy of female mallards
Was seen on the tidal river
Along with a Canada gang
Of geese heading north. The cardinal
“Cheer cheer”s his mating call.
And yet it is snowing again.
WAKE UP CALLS
I heard the crows; their raucous cries
Awoke me from a restless bed.
I did not know what rude surprise
Their harsh insistence might portend.
The day was sunlit, clear and cold.
I saw no reason for alarm,
But on my neighbor’s patio
The usual bread for birds was gone.
And then it was I understood
What their complaints had been about.
No imminent evil was foretold,
Just calls to send their vittles out.
So let it be with all alarms:
False, and signaling no harm.
ON OCTOBER 12
A cacophony of geese flew by
As drivers all used to do
Honk, honk honking vociferously
In the streets of Lima, Peru.
As we watched, they shifted formation
Forming two separate Vees
But maintaining their congregation
With graceful and admirable ease.
We knew where they were headed
Though they were soon out of sight
Bound for warm waters, determined
To leave behind long wintry nights
And we applauded their foresight
Well aware that their instinct was right.
BIRD LORE
“I saw an eagle in a tree!”
She cried. “I know it was an omen
That God intended me to see.
And yesterday I saw a hawk
On top of a telephone pole.
Oh how I wish it could have talked
And told me the meaning of it all.”
The pagans thought birds could predict,
And Indians tell us what they mean.
An eagle is a holy spirit.
A hawk is wisdom with vision keen.
There is much comfort in such beliefs
Though eagles do winter on our bay
And hawks seek prey on our highways.
AT BREAKFAST
Blackbirds soar across
The al fresco cafeteria,
Alight on a plate of melon,
Dance on it, pick at it
And squabble about it
Until the diner approaches
And we consider whether
We should advise the lady
That her fruit has been pre-
Tasted and appreciated.
At last pity prevails.
We warn her of her visitors’
None too sanitary intrusions.
She settles for an espresso.
THE COMING OF SPRING
It begins with the house finches
Reclaiming the blue spruce
In early February
Unfazed by lingering inches
Of snow or cold, using
Their last year’s sanctuary.
And then the cardinal calls
From behind the garages.
A crowd of robins assembles
To sample a pear tree’s largesse.
By now it is March. Snowdrops
And purple crocus are showing.
Maples turn red. Willows
Turn yellow. A circle
Of lady bluebirds flies close
To my daughter’s Dunstable windows.
Today is the first of April.
Forsythia blooms beside daffodils.
NEIGHBORS
The house finches are back! They
Did not wait for spring.
On February’s bitter days
They flitted insouciantly
In and out and about the
Prickly arms of my spruce tree,
Several of them for a while,
Last year’s nestlings perhaps,
Until an agreement was reached:
This year’s duo domiciled.
Meanwhile March has bustled in
With transient snow and wind.
Now that spring is in the air
They’re a happily settled pair.
OUR PLANETARY PROBLEM
Our cabana overlooks an Andean
Valley lightly flecked with clouds
That keep these jungle forests green.
Before me hangs a feeder used by crowds
Of hummingbirds of every stripe and hue:
Tawny, black and white, scarlet or teal.
But this is an aerial warfare view
Far from a peaceful bucolic scene.
These winged warriors swoop and dart
At any color but their own,
Briefly sip with kindred cohorts
Then shoot the alien flyers down.
Who’s unlike me must be my foe:
A rule that every earthling knows.
AT THE RIO COSANGA
We left our San Isidro cabanas
And stopped at the bridge on the Rio Cosanga
To search for the elusive yellow duck
For which we were not to be in luck.
However, blue swallows sat on a rail
Preening and flipping their wings and tails,
Then dipping and swooping in widening arcs
Snapping up insects above the rocks
Where the river rushed in a foaming flood
Fed by the weeping clouds above.
ON THE FIRST DAY OF APRIL
As they circle and soar
In wide leisurely glides
The western sun silvers
Their wings’ undersides:
Four ebony vultures
On a springtime patrol
Back from the southlands
To clean up our roads
While a pale full moon
On the eastern horizon
Rises to bestow
A benevolent benison
And at the small pond
Two redwings chatter
To welcome the emergence
Of ice-free water.
ON SWASEY PARKWAY
The seagulls cloud around her
As she tosses the day old bread.
They swoop and dance and flutter,
Ring bills, gray and white breasted,
Clustered around open water
At the shore of the arctic expanse
Of the seldom frozen Squamscott.
She tells me they know her well,
Crowd up when she appears,
Friends with lively welcomes,
After her bakery days.
She once had a dog companion.
Now winged ones keep her company.
I tell her I will bring bread
The next time I come to the waters.