Spring walking on a Sunday evening
Over the new mown trails
Through the raspberry canes.
The lightning and thunder have paused and
The evening sun glows through the rain spattered sky
Spring green leaves glisten and shake rain drops.
A brown bird flies up and startles us
just as our thunder feet startled her.
The hidden nest holds four speckled blue and purple eggs. Or maybe five.
Mama didn’t limp or try to distract us; she just waited until we tiptoed away.
I’m calling her a field sparrow…
On the other side of the yard bluebirds are nesting
in the rusty corn planter that decorates the tool shed.
She perches and guards five eggs.
The shed was half painted when the new renters began to investigate.
The paintbrushes have been put away now
until the eggs hatch and the birds have flown.
Drops of rain send us to the house for cover
But the sun shines behind the rain
And there in the eastern sky the rainbow glows
On the thirty-first of January
I long for warmth — hands and feet always cold…
the sun — so far away it doesn’t even melt the icicles
hanging from the roof,
or the snow on the spruce branches.
Mostly the dark gray sky just turns a lighter shade of pale;
morning is only told by the smell of coffee.
The cat takes refuge in the warm dryer.
Yet there are glimmers —
spirit-lifting bluebirds fly around in the snow;
a bit of brown grass shows underneath the pines;
each day brings an extra minute of precious light.
Feb. 3, 2015: Sunrise 7:04 Sunset 5:16 10 hours 12 minutes of daylight… and counting.
This morning a group of tourists stopped by the cottage.
They were a noisy bunch,
Fluttering and chirping around the pokeberries
at the shrubby edge between
mowed and wild.
Binoculars missing from their usual spot,
I had to run around the cottage,
Fluttering and chirping,
To locate them
Hiding on a windowsill.
I didn’t take this photo: it’s from the Great Backyard Bird Count gallery. Click on the photo to see some great bird shots.
When I returned to the back porch,
there must have been twenty or more,
nervously flitting from berry to berry.
on their way to somewhere
stopping at our pokeberry bushes
The click of the camera
and they flew off,
in an unknown beguiling language.
I took my seat reverently
in the wet grass of the leafy cathedral
and waited for their reappearance;
but their stomachs were filled with purple berries
and they were off in search of the next rest stop.
A golden aura of wonder and delight remained
In the silence of the morning
my prayer ascended in the bright sky:
for glimpses of the unordinary
in the ordinary.
And then the shy local fellow came into the shadows
to enjoy apples and stolen corn for