A russet blur runs
arrow-straight
through green fields.
A fox, fleeing
the baying hounds.
A russet blur runs
arrow-straight
through green fields.
A fox, fleeing
the baying hounds.
If you, too, find this season
sometimes tinged
with melancholy,
I send you a bouquet
picked from my garden
at summers end.
Sunlight turned
to structure,
beauty in the seeds
of tomorrow.
Stepping out
of the seasonal rush,
drivers stop
by the estuary edge.
–
Together we pause,
momentarily,
to catch the light
as it fades.
Mountaintops glow orange.
Dawn reflecting
on November snow.
It starts with a drip, a drop, a splash
as a handful of starlings zoom past my window,
causing me to glance up from the computer screen.
I get back to work, but then
the trickle becomes a stream
and holds me, mesmerized.
Pulses, waves of flickering, fluttering birds,
hundreds, then thousands.
I cannot help but marvel,
following them with my eyes as they streak past,
just one tributary of a giant river of wings,
following them with my mind
to the nearby reedbeds
where they will join, and dance.
Thousands upon thousands coordinated
in breathtaking choreography
until on some secret signal
they descend to the reeds to roost.
Outside my window the river slows to a trickle
For a while, small flocks of stragglers whizz by
just drips and drops as darkness falls.
Sleep tight, little birds.
Evening practice.
Ten mindful breaths
beneath the stars.
I am breathing in the cold night air
as goose calls drift up from the estuary.
We share the same moonlight.