Coming Home

FIELD NOTES.

The hellebore pokes up through the still frozen detritus of winter. Bright green, it is the only color on the swamp floor. The geese honk in their territorial wars. Breeding boundaries must be drawn. A flock of wood ducks paddles among the warring geese and swallows rise and dive, dip and fall, in search of prey too small for me to see. A fox sparrow puffs up on a branch beside me, displaying for an uninterested female. The season is young still. A merganser emerges from the cattails and a flock of geese honks in alarm, flaps its wings, and concedes the territory.

I have no reason to be here. This is not my world. I sit on a log waiting for something to happen. The red maples are budding. I examine a blossom with my hand lens. So much of my world is about optics. Microscope, hand lens, glasses, binoculars, telephoto lens. Through which lens do I perceive reality? Today this world is gray sky, black water, the dull bones of trees, and the pale grasses. Yet, it is so alive with sound and promise. Wood frogs cluck, tree frog songs reverberate in my ears, a woodpecker drums, a squirrel chatters at me, the geese honk, and the wind rustles through the cattails. A blue heron flies across the far side of the water, extends its spindly legs and stretches out its wings as it touches down on the remains of a nest floating on the water, a casualty of winter winds and ice. For twenty-five years I have watched these herons return to this nest, breed, and raise their young. The heron stays a few minutes and moves on. I wonder where it will build a new nest.

A chickadee perches on a branch beside me, scolds me, and then lands on my head. The sun burns through the gray. The dark waters of the wetland bring me home again.

Spangled Fritillary

At this time
of endless dusk
and early dawn
a hummingbird feeds
in the bee balm
and bees disappear
in the foxglove blossoms.

My wife and I watch
a great spangled fritillary
lick the orange petals
of the butterfly weed.

We peer together
at the stunning
black and orange
patter of its wings.

I ask myself,
"What is it, then,
that leads me
to love this person
standing next to me?"

Grape vines
climb the arbor
morning glories strive
to beat the slugs,
the heat, the drought.

Iris past their prime
leave so many dead heads
in the garden
lupine gone to seed
peonies abandoned.

Nothing lasts forever
I tell myself
like these flowers,
I, too, will die.

But the daisys beckon
alive with white
the lilies sizzle
in the forest light

And then,
my Who Gives A Shit voice
awakens in this dream
of summer bliss.

Because life will be gone
it never is?
I bite my tongue
Because it will be gone,
it is,
like the scarlet tanager
singing in the plum tree
like the painted turtle
basking on the log
like the bear cub
scampering across the road
it is
like a bullfrog's croak
like a garter snake
like a spider spinning
it is
like a great spangled fritillary
and the touch of my lover's hand
It is!
It is!
It is!

Dewdrops on a Hosta Leaf

Daylight
overpowers me
on the short end
of the rope
it drags me
from the comfort
of my sun-dried sheets
and the sweet oblivion
of sleep.

I face
a rose spreading
all her petals
to the sky
in a
"Take me! Take me!"
moment
her day
becomes mine
and the pleasures
of oblivion
melt into
the dewdrops
on a hosta
leaf.

Deep Time

While I watch
the otters
etrash
smolders
in a pile
in Ghana
picked clean
by children
inhaling
lead, copper,
and cancer.

Cellphones sing
Blackberries buzz
digits send lives
through cyberspace
while I watch
the rain come
a breeze rustles
the cattails
where turtles
hibernate in the mud
and the human brain
changes.

Life is a screen
filled with ads
all registered
by neurons
that fire
the brain
like so many
coyote tracks
on a beaver dam
shifting perception
of what it is
to be alive
in the rain.

We surf
for information
while information
is gleaned
from our surfing
we become bundles
of products
traded
like so many
used monitors
scavenged
for metals
by children
hungry
for life.

I watch
otters
on youtube
I see you
on skype
every minute
of every day
blood drips
one drop
at a time
while I open
my eyes
the wired
cavalry
robs
the deep
time.

I read
in the marsh
where once
the trees grew
and how
a storm
came.

I sit
with the wind
the fog
and the dark.

A woodpecker
drums
a hole
in a pine.

As I watch
the otters
the whole
world changes.

Waiting for Fox

I stare
at the frozen
pond
a blank
canvas
waiting
for the fox
to come trotting
across
the unmarked
snow.

I cannot
press a button
or click a mouse
touch a screen
and have it
appear.

I must wait
minutes, hours, days
perhaps,even a lifetime
before
one breathless moment
a figure
will emerge
from the shadows
on the bank
and trot
before
my eyes.

Coming Home

There is no fanfare
to announce the sun
only one cold squirrel
in search of food
and then a bird.

An otter slithers
from the water
shakes and slides.

A breeze stirs
through the morning
and then
the quiet
follows me home.

Photo by Mari H. Hall