January 22, 2013

The sky slowly faded through all those lovely shades of indigo until it was the familiar dawn shade, welcoming the sun, lighter toward the horizon.  Birdsong started out slowly but soon you could hear several kinds, mockingbirds, one of the owls hooting sleepily, a crow, and a bunch of the little twitters.  More birds than I have heard in a long time so early anyway . . . 

The long slanting light fills the yard in stripes of sun and shadow; the two cats, the striped male and the jungle black one have each had their turn of inspection.  A woman walking three dogs at once rounded the corner and seemed to have things well in hand, the dogs of various sizes all trotting along, looking glad to be outside. 

It's chilly but not cold this morning, the coffee smells wonderful and I will have to get some before it is all gone.  There is a bit of breeze but only enough to show you there is a breath of air.  Not even enough to ring any chime at all, but it might be picking up because earlier there was no wind.  One of the squirrels has been sitting still as stone in the sawtooth oak, every once in a while you can see the tail twitch but that's all.  I'm wondering if it's asleep or just enjoying the sun. 

Now It Is Clear

Now it is clear to me that no leaves are mine
no roots are mine
that wherever I go I will be a spine of smoke in the forest
and the forest will know it
we both will know it

and that the birds vanish because of something
that I remember
flying from me as though I were a great wind
as the stones settle into the ground
the trees into themselves
staring as though I were a great wind
which is what I pray for

it is clear to me that I cannot return
but that some of us will meet once more
even here
like our own statues
and some of us still later without names
and some of us will burn with the speed
of endless departures

and be found and lost no more

W. S. Merwin 

This poem reminds me that though I look out the window every morning and think of this as "my" yard, I think I understand that it is only on loan, that all those things I enjoy every morning really belong to themselves, I just get to enjoy them.   It reminds me that friends even far away are always as near as thought and I only have to remember them for them to be found and lost no more.   I'm not sure I am praying for a great wind, it seems to me that wind only makes cold colder, but it does make the trees converse with it and each other, and holds the birds I so enjoy seeing aloft in their familiar sky!  If I were a spine of smoke in the forest, that could be a dangerous thing, where there is smoke there is fire, and I am sure the woods would not want to deal with fire, however I like the idea of drifting through the trees and seeing all there is to see.  It would certainly make me . . . lighter on my . . . does smoke have feet?  I suppose not.   And smoke would soon vanish, and I would rather stick around.  

The wind has risen, and is shaking the bare branches, making stick music, clattering and stiff.   When there are leaves it sounds more like ocean, but absent leaves it makes a different kind of music, harsher, more percussion than woodwind.   I am blessed by an abundance of beauty here in this place, where even the rapacious cane dances its own brand of joy, and the birds come and go as they please!