Evening Poem, March 24, 2015

 

.

The forest in late winter has about it a stark uniformity

All brown and grey

Even the songbirds that remain are dun-plumed

And camouflaged against the brown floor

The bare trunks and branches

The dirty sky.

 

I walk there, nonetheless

And consider the contours of the hills across the ravine

Clean lines, unburdened by summer foliage

.

I watch the blackbirds

The wide buzzards holding the wind

Stationary, as the Earth turns beneath them

A dozen or more

Silent on their ragged wings

Wheeling higher and lower on the draft out of the valley

So close as to make shooting shadows like ghosts across the ground

Over rock and fallen tree

Magnifying as they drop down the hillside

Then so high as to appear only a faint line in the sky

.

The sloppy crows, gangling, as if drunk

Calling loudly, flitting noisily from tree to tree

Afraid of the smaller birds, themselves black, too

That dog them boldly, raising hell for kicks

They are old hat to me, like rats in a dump

They hold no mystery and show no grace

They are late winter itself

 

But today, just at the end of my excursion

I spy a bird perched on the branch of a sapling

And I stop in my tracks and hold still

And stare to drink in this sight

A tiny bluebird

His feathers extravagant and excessive

The blue of velvet

So neat and perfect

As if he had just been groomed

His round breast so orange

As to make the robin dull

Where has this creature come from?

He does not match any color here

His profile, rounded and fine

His pleasing proportions

Are from some other place.

I hold my breath and allow myself to consider this symbol

Of spring

Of hope

Of Christ?

Copyright 2015

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