those who dream of being
superheros
consider invisibility
to move about, impossible to detect
listening to secrets of power
and hidden treasure
yet when we notice
we have slipped
into the shadows of inconsequence
indistinct and vague
we forget
this forgetfulness happens slowly
as lines deepen across foreheads
hair greys, joints stiffen and ache
a slow transformation
to negligibility
Until we see beyond
the potency of vigor
the impressiveness of efficiency
where we ascend
into the eloquence
of the minute
the miniscule
have a laugh then
throw back your head
and let loose
let the rumble of awareness rise
rest in the stillness of calm water
the heat of the sun
Apologies to the Dog
All day I apologize to the dog.
I’m so sorry that dogs don’t rise
to lose themselves in the deep, bitter
pleasure of a morning cup of coffee.
I’m sorry that dogs don’t ride bicycles,
so that together we could slip through the air
with the birds, over rivers,
into the high mountains.
I’m so sorry, I tell the dog,
that chocolate is dog poison.
That you can not take this dark
bit of uplift into your mouth and let
it melt slowly from your heat.
I’m so sorry that you cannot follow
your heart down the road to visit
a friend or explore the school yard
in search of love.
You are not human and I am sorry.
Sorry that your joy depends on anyone who will throw
the ball. That your dreams are about running
free and pleasure is a bowl of the same food
day after day after day.
I don’t like Redwing Blackbirds much, but my friend, Shannon, told me that I needed to get over it. I created this collage to try and warm my heart to them. As I worked on it at my kitchen table, I watched outside as the Redwing Blackbirds devoured all of the sunflower seeds in the feeder. They crowded out my good friends, the goldfinch, chickadees and Dark-eyed Juncos. I could feel the old grudge rising. This effort may not have served its purpose, but I like the image…especially the bird feet. (Thanks, Jenny, for noticing them.)
I reinvigorated this blog during the Covid-19 pandemic. It is such a sad and difficult time for so many that I feel guilty to have found in this time of necessary isolation the opportunity I have long awaited. For seventeen years of my career, I supported learning through the arts. At long last, I get to make art for the pure and simple pleasure. Who knows, I might even learn something along the way.
This image was inspired by a photo of the Covid-19 virus published in the New York Times. I’ve attached it below. I thought that for all its destruction it’s actually quite pretty. I knew I wanted to reinterpret the image in a collage and I kept thinking about it without getting anywhere. Then a friend made the comment, “covid not be be confused with corvid,” and I had it. Thanks, Caroline!
After so long in quiet darkness, the conductor raises her arms, the light comes up and the symphony begins. The trill, click and bob of the Redwing Blackbird, the persistent thrum of Canada Geese, the chirp of frantic robins, the twitter of fluting warblers. Each day now the symphony crescendos until soon we will awaken, lean toward the open window to slide it shut and silence the cacophony.
Birds lead lives of constant certainty. They know that when they open their eyes to the morning, the sky will meet the earth. They know tree branches will bend in the wind, that rain and snow will fall from the sky, that aggressive birds will pick and prey upon them, that food will be plentiful or not. Each day’s dawn provides assurance that this day will be like no other before or after.
Birds never leave us, but sometimes we forget them. It’s when we get to spinning and thinking and spinning some more. One day, we discover that all that spinning has dug us into a deep hole. There we are, underground in darkness, wondering what to do. Wondering, until we remember that birds have wings, and if we listen they will teach us to fly.
All mixed up together on river’s open pool, mallards, golden-eye, mergansers. Need, invisibly pulled them together last night, to cast off pain and sorrow, to share joy and revelations, to forget the burdens of being a duck. But on this day, they open their eyes to a refreshed landscaped, purified by New Year’s Eve snow and know unknowably that this day is different from the last. It is time to retreat into solitude, they murmur to one another, to contemplate its newness.
The Downy Woodpecker clasps the thin branch of ice-laced willow amid an infinite array of shimmering crystals. Her signature red, feathery, hat glows like fire, illuminated by the piercing sun. With each tap of bill to willow, she unleashes a shower of diamonds, sparking, glittering, floating, dancing. A most brilliant performance for the eyes of one, blessed, birder peering from behind a pair of binoculars.
No need for breadcrumbs, string, compass or gps. Birds trust in their hearts. They don’t make promises they can’t keep, mislead or suggest they will stay. One day a force fills them with need. They stop with the chores and hang up their aprons. Each pulsation of that tiny organ confirms their destiny. They lift their wings to leap into air equally still and tumultuous.
Beneath the hollow blue of morning sky, a white, full circle of moon pauses at the crest of snowy mountains then sinks beyond view. An immense sparkling dresses the meadow. Silvery round bodies of a dozen geese float on the sleek, gray of Skyline Pond. Each feathery package of awe holds a jewel of gratitude. The gift of another precious day.
Oh, Gold Finch, where have you taken your fistful of color? Whose world do you brighten now? You left us wondering and going round and round. White descends, night’s black rises. We, the abandoned, are left dreaming, imagining what your eyes see now. Thick green. Pulsating scarlet. Deep, bottomless, blue. Feathery yellow. And, all that lies between us.
