First Flight

The young bird hops,

into my open garage.

Head hunched

it studies the veined floor

like a map; lost traveler

cast low from

wooded heights,

and lifts to its mother

a raspy cry.

Too early from the nest

fearful of the sky,

unsure of tender wings,

not able to fly,

it’s helpless.

I want to hold it,

feel its heart

tremble in my gentle hands

return it

to shredded nest,

or,

like a prayer,

cast it high to heaven

and watch it fly

or fall,

but I do nothing

when echoing its mother’s call

the youngster stumbles out the door

and into the still street -

Breathless,

I watch mother bird

diving near

as the fledgling

rises  

into familiar air.

Suisun Nocturne

The setting sun spills
over rolling brown hills
glancing back for one final flashing.

Then night’s black wind
heavy day's veil rends
with a gale from the sea coldly piercing.

When warm day is done,
cool night's just begun
its lusty old song sweetly calling

the cricket and linnet,
and bold frog in the thicket,
and dim trees gently swaying.

Dark Contemplation

“Contemplation cannot be taught. It cannot even be clearly explained. It can only be hinted at, suggested, pointed to, symbolized.”  Thomas Merton. New Seeds of Contemplation

Through seasons of pleasure 

and months of pain, 

morning birds calling;

night’s howling trains

oh, fall into dream’s 

cold silent folds

where unyielding truth 

nightly is told.

The morning star’s rising

through night’s fading lace.

Soon sun will be glaring;

truth without grace.

The Heist

Two grey-blue mockingbirds

alight on my cherry tree,

and set up their look-out;

the squatting male belches

shrill, harsh warnings, his

screeching song feigning pain

to make the gold-finch

and robin flee in alarm,

while Bonnie to his Clyde

picks at my ripe cherries and

knocks one to the ground;

flitting lightly down, she arises,

all Betty Boop

red lips pouting

between pointed beak,

as together they make their get-away,

high into the cottonwood,

beyond the reach of my constable cat,

to divide the fruit of their crime.

A Windy Day

Image: A Windy Day, Joshua Shaw, 1840

We live in the land

of the western wind.

Sit silent and still

under dancing leaves.

See how it fills

the savage trees

with whispered passion,

strokes rough wood,

enraptures

tender stems.