March 23, 2012

A very dark morning, because there are no clouds, there is no reflection of near by lighting from the port, so it's actually dark.  And so quiet, quiet enough to make my ears ring with it.  I like the early morning but this early there is not much interesting to see, or hear, though I suspect the birds will be up soon.
  
At This Hour 

Say I am not wrong to want the two finches who ring out.
Say I've begun to lose my way—no one dies
from saying it, no one even turns in their sleep. Certainly I've fallen
into old patterns, the tile markings, the blue
of the milkmaid's apron in the painting, the boys' homework cascading
from the high table. And more—
the note saying "today I felt moody; I ate very little at lunchtime;
at nap I slept," that plus the hand-lettered sign
over the cafeteria freezer offering your choice of chocolate or skim
—it has a certain feel to it, easily it becomes life as we know it. Still,
there's something else. It's dawn now, the school buses flash
their warning lights. Even moments ago, I could feel it,
the sky purpling to blue, the leaves of the maple—
there's no maple but I do remember one, Japanese or red,
a companion from a dream—and there's more, just under the surface,
reticulating, pulled out to pasture, faithful in its disorder.
Or the disorder's me, I'm the object turning in the light,
and the two finches who know I'm alive
are turning too, very quickly—
very quickly headed they know not where.

Carol Ann Davis

Ah, don't we all have old patterns, signs we see everyday that once in awhile we notice and wonder how long they have been there, and what they really mean?  It's all life as we know it, and it is dawn now and the school bus for the high school just rounded the corner without even slowing down.  The maple is still hidden, though I would be reluctant to call it . . . disordered, its leaves all willy-nilly, its branches at every angle.  I am just beginning to recognize the dark of the tree from the dark of the sky.  So many details, that I am sure I don't notice most of them any more, that when I do notice I sometimes get a jolt, seeing something in that new light.  The birds are beginning to make sleepy noises, I hear a mourning dove in this dark.  I don't think it matters much to the birds where they are headed, they go where they need to go and make song of the journey.  This morning, I am going where I need to go, and just trying to notice a few more things along the way!