haibun – Page 2 – One Woman's Quest

Independent, En-Masse

A familial gathering – rock balanced upon rock – stands at the Rideau’s edge, one amongst several such groupings, each a masterpiece unto itself, and yet one small, insignificant creation begs attention: a small duck-like figure, turned away from the rest, facing north rather than south, as if it hears a different call. Even its companion, hesitant, looks back towards the family, for reassurance. Body of fossil, head carved by erosion – he ponders other horizons. Even the artist – albeit working with spartan tools – could not bend the will of this little being, could not mold him into conformity. He is childlike innocence and brash determination, and I imagine that as the sun goes down and the tourists disappear, he glides through the water, travels against the current and revels in the freedom.

At the river’s edge
figures rise, stoic families
hailing passersby.

(Written for dVerse pub, and for Ragtag Communities prompt: spartan. The balanced rock sculptures are the work of John Felice Ceprano and can be found at the Remic Rapids in Ottawa, Ontario.)

Cricket Cacophony

Clouds cluster, warn of coming storms. Having been shut in for days, I am anxious to get outside. Trusty camera carefully secured around my neck, hands firm on walker’s grip, I begin my slow stroll through the neighbourhood. A gust of wind disrupts the flight of a bumblebee, and we collide: he striking my cheek. I step back, startled. No damage done.

I follow a walkway, built between the houses, leading to our community center. This route takes me past rows of flourishing gardens – a feast of vibrancy. I slow to watch the bees delightedly dancing from bloom to bloom. At the edge of my friend’s house, I hear the crickets, loud and raucous, as if they know that she is currently away. I pause to listen, surprised to hear such unabashed chirping mid-day.

Lingering, I hope to catch a glimpse of one, maybe even a photograph, but the creatures are securely tucked in the shadows of the overgrown foliage, oblivious to my presence. I capture the flight of a bee, and the elegant profile of a mourning dove, and then turn back. A white winged moth brushes my hand in passing and then stops long enough for me to take a picture. The crickets keep on singing.

Midday crickets sing –
revel in nature’s bounty,
as storm clouds gather.

(Written for dVerse, hosted tonight by Victoria.)

The History Lesson

“Why do we have to learn about something that doesn’t effect us?” the small, blonde student asked me. “I mean, it was ages ago, and not even in our country.”

She might as well have run me through the heart with a stake, the pain of her words struck me so deeply. I considered her: an average student, indulged, youngest child, modestly dressed, like many of her age. Disinterested.

Because without our awareness, and interference, history repeats itself, I wanted to say. Because nothing that happens in the world happens in isolation; we are not immune. Because ignorance makes victims of us all.

Instead, I sent the class home with an assignment: ask questions, call your grandparents, find someone who remembers, and be prepared to share what you have discovered.

***

History foretells –
casts eerie shadows over
disregard’s future.

(dVerse’s Haibun Monday is hosted by Frank J. Tassone, who challenges us to write a piece for Hiroshima Day.)

Vancouver Island

Is it the robins, whose morning song, so sharp and crisp awakens me in this enchanted place or the warble of Juncos, whose hooded black faces delight me as they forage between the dried, curled aftermath of a cold winter, now pushed aside by new life sprouting. The absence of rain drops on tin roof offer promise that the sun might appear today, the buds on the oak trees as anxious as I for the warmth. I raise the window shades to reveal the lush green of Douglas firs, the walls that divide us from our neighbours, nomads like us in this quest to commune with a simpler way of life. We are metal boxes tucked within green pockets, quiet souls hushed by the grandeur of the forest we currently call home, reticent to disturb the wildlife that also grazes here – squirrel, fox, and rumours of cougars. Occasionally bear. We are skirted on one side by marsh, a lush welcoming for geese and goldeneyes, and on the other by ocean, where seagulls and terns claim driftwood as perches. It is the raven who is master of this land, their large black wings casting shadows, their thrumming call, sometimes belligerent, sometimes like a purr, a reminder that this is their land, that the totem poles that dot the island are a testament to their place, their royalty. Offshore, seals roam in masses encouraged by the schools of trout and halibut, and soon the salmon runs. Orcas gather in semi-circular formation, readying the hunt. Spring is a time of proliferation – abundance after the winter chill.

arise, old woman
nature evokes new rhythm –
spirit wants to dance.

(Day 12 of NaPoWriMo invites us to write a haibun.)