It’s a bird’s perspective I envy –
the ability to perch up high,
balanced no matter the weather,
unaffected by the drama below –
I shall never know such calm,
being afraid of heights.
(Previously published 08/19. Image my own)
It’s a bird’s perspective I envy –
the ability to perch up high,
balanced no matter the weather,
unaffected by the drama below –
I shall never know such calm,
being afraid of heights.
(Previously published 08/19. Image my own)
A murder of crows
peck at a carcass
beneath the old Spruce
Likely dragged there
by a coyote after feasting
They do that sometimes
a brazen act of rebellion
our bricked presence
blocking the path
I reached for the phone
this morning, wanting to relay
current events, and then…stopped
remembering you are gone
only my carcass remains, rots
at the mocking of crows
Coyotes are tricksters, they say
and I feel picked apart
preyed upon on my own path
the wounds of the past
inviting the mind’s vultures.
What is it all about
this mortality/ immortality?
A dove rests on the porch rail
sleeping despite the crow fray
Peace slumbers on this mournful day.
(Image my own)
Wildlife flirts
blossoms sing
air vibrates
sun and rain
Birds and bees
buzz in harmony
but a single note
thrills my senses
Canada Geese
squabble and waddle
while Mallard Mom
herds young into reeds
A splash signals
presence of beaver,
but my ear is fixated
eyes scanning green
For a glimpse
of brilliant orange
capped with black –
Baltimore Oriole
(Image my own)
Insects dance
at river’s edge
I am tempted
to run away
but heron’s calm –
a presence I depend on –
invites me to stay
Within the frenetic buzz
he and I find stillness
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
Mysterious, this pull
these avian dreams
I would rather fly away
lacking courage’s backbone
Yet here we are, facing
another day – me the bird
And you, the indomitable tree
roots to my wayward vision
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)
The loon’s call
pierces complacency…
I spiral backwards,
inwards – depths
of dream forgotten –
an eerie awakening.
(Image my own)
Restlessness accompanies me
on this sojourn today –
unfazed by ripe red
belly of robin,
or shimmering emerald
of breeding merganser’s crown.
My lens seeks out decay –
rotting wood, darkened cavities,
as if my soul craves reassurance
that life persists even where death
hovers – I need a sign
Discontent, I move on-
drive the river road
snail’s pace – praying for
something to shake
this malaise –
birds come and go,
trees radiate Spring green,
I pause, unmoved.
And then I spot it,
across the river, up high,
a massive hulk;
lens raises, adjusts, snaps,
the regal hunter turns toward me
regards me with ferocious intensity,
does not falter on his perch –
All-seeing, fearless,
he is spirit-manifested,
a messenger, lifting me
from stagnation –
momentary redemption.
(Needing a Sign first appeared here, May 2019. Image my own.)
Rain-infused greens
inspire whimsical thoughts –
surely there are sprites
frolicking amongst the mossy boughs,
sheltering beneath ancient roots
whose twisted tendrils rise and dip
in rhythm to Earth’s pulses.
The muddied path pushes back
against my weary legs, invites me
to sit awhile, wonder at the impossible
heights from which birdsong flits across
treetops, pinging back from unseen
distances, unhindered by human progress.
Salmonberries, newly popped,
herald the seasonal shift,
and I watch as a slug undulates
slowly past, antennae bobbing,
the black spots of its tail reptilian.
Below me, lantern-like blooms
of yellow sprout at creek’s edge
their pungent aroma carried by
the still chilled vernal breeze.
A red-breasted nuthatch scurries
up a neighbouring fir, while two robins
flirt playfully on the rainforest floor,
hopping amongst the freshly flowered
trilliums, their white crowns a regal
presence in this place of enchantment.
(Image my own)
Morrell Nature Sanctuary first appeared on One Woman’s Quest II in April, 2018. Morrell Nature Sanctuary is on Vancouver Island, Canada.
Fierce hunter, osprey
carries his catch
like a prized ruby –
riveting sight
At home, hubby
prepares his pride –
squirt of extra-virgin,
dash of extra spice
I observe them both
bemused by the process,
cooking up this poem.
(Image my own)
Anticipating owl’s hoot
dove’s coo startles me
I am plodding turtle
hard-shelled
searching for circles
in this squared-off existence
Dove offers a throaty laugh
then is gone before
my soft-bellied self
can beg deliverance.
(Tuesdays, I borrow from Twitter @Vjknutson. Image my own)