Persistence

The great-horned owlet,
first younster of the year,
made him or herself known
last night,
strident begging calls floating
across our field
in the darkness.

In the cold March rain,

the bluebird pair chose today
to begin nest building,
carrying soggy mouthfuls of last year's grass
to the hanging gourd in the hedgerow,

driven by an internal clock
towards procreation.

Chickadees frequent the feeder in pairs,
and Carolina wrens chortle exuberant duets.
Blue jays pass seeds, mate to mate,
and red-shouldered hawks circle each other in flight,
like an aerial hug.

Soon, all will be on eggs
and the season of new life
will begin.
And when these babies have grown up
and gone their own way,
on into the fall the owlet
will be begging.

I credit the patience
of owls.
It takes a long time to raise
a raptor.

Resilience

I'm not sure I know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.

I know of wood frogs who hibernate
in the leaf layer, whose
blood is like anti-freeze and 
whose bodies freeze and thaw
through the winter.
I know of woodland depressions,
bowls in the earth
who want to be ponds but 
must be patient
and wait
for winter's ice to melt 
into the water that fills them,
only to become dry land again 
when their work is done.

Contrary to what Jesus is said to have said,
seeds do not die when they fall to the ground.
Rather, embryos within fully alive,
they lie helpless and inert,
pummeled by rain and abrasion until
slowly they soften and sprout and
open to the world.
As do desert plants who live
so long dormant,
out of sight and forgotten,
until awakened by showers,
they burst into bloom,
set their seed,
and return to silent slumber
once again. 

I know of skunk cabbage,
warmed from within,
melting through the frozen muck
and emerging in late winter,
as though it cannot stand the
darkness a moment longer.
And snow geese and tundra swans,
and humans with hearts on fire,
who press on through the long unknown
to the land that calls
them home.

I don't know what resilience is.
Not experientially, anyway.
But, from those who have no choice,
I learn.

Sleeping

 

Tread softly on the sleeping ground,
where roots and rhizomes 
grow in secret,
unimpaired
beneath the frost,
where corms and pupae
snuggly rest
and wait
until the appointed
time
to wake
and stretch
upwards, 
onward,
through softening soil,
towards the
light.

Awaken gently to sleeping dreams
that linger in
your soul
as you go about 
the minutes and hours
of your days,
beckoning,
whispering 
of all that might,
at the appointed
time,
stretch
upwards, 
onward,
unbound,
towards the 
light.

 

Now and Not Yet

Through the long, barren winter
I waited...wearied in the waiting,
truth be told, trying to believe
the promised green
would come again.
And flowers. And warblers'
song.

I bent over woodland floor
and garden beds, nudging aside
last year's leaves and stalks,
probing for the evidence
that was supposed to
be there.

And the day came that I rejoiced,
was giddy, in fact, at the all but invisible 
new shoots, seen only by those
whose patience is wearing 
thin. And I thought I
was content.

This morning I walked the woodland
realizing that my longing is not
assuaged, after all. 
Dwarf ginseng, trout-lilies
and spring beauties abound,
all in bud, but none open.
The brown-thrasher has begun
his glad singing, but I
hear no warblers. 
I am still
waiting.

And yet, the promise unfolds in
its own time.
Between hope and surety,
between wanting and waiting,
between desire and fulfillment,
in the mystery of this moment
I am embraced. It is 
enough. 

Now and not yet.

Unstoppable

In the season of still-deep-winter
have you noticed
the wild things drawn
beyond this moment?

The juncos have begun trilling
from the treetops,
their restless hearts gladly
anticipating the prospect of moving on,
moving back.
And a single robin whinnies
in the damp woods across the road,
not yet singing, but heeding the
the pull towards longer days and
the hormonal shift
that awaits.
As do the bluebirds,
chortling their sweet notes,
flirting and pairing up,
preparations beginning,
the future on 
their minds.

Snow still lies heavy
on the land
and yet, the inexorable
movement towards spring
has begun, unfolding in
its own time, 
unstoppable,
untamable,
holy.

Have you noticed?

Molting

Every fall she appears forlorn, bedraggled, 
with feathers missing and
bare patches on her rump,
surely cold and damp without her full plumage, 
which is yet to come.
A time to endure 
and hope for renewal.

Massive skeletons against the sky, 
they stand stripped, devoid of color,
foliage shed.
Perhaps it doesn't matter whether
by the gale's force or a gentle letting go;
The outcome is the same, 
entailing a long winter's wait 
for green and new growth 
to resume.

They float on the river, 
waterfowl bound to the earth 
for a season.
Unable to fly, 
they must bide their time and watch,
vulnerable, 
eyes on the sky they
cannot inhabit until 
new flight feathers emerge.

Browned and brittle,
stalks that were supple and green 
stand drying in the cold.
Goldenrods and asters, 
yellows and purples blanched to tan, 
holding pale, fuzzy seedheads 
soon to be 
dislodged by the breezes, 
sowing promise
of life to come.

Molting, Shedding, Waiting.
Emerging, Sowing, Hoping.

Believing.
Thanks be to God.

Waiting

Three months until the wood thrush song, two and a half, if I am lucky.

In the meantime there are robins, their distant cousins...hundreds of them
foraging in the soft soil beneath leaves, drinking from the open water of woodland streams, calling out their winter presence, perhaps keeping tabs on each others' whereabouts. 

There is the flicker, rustling high above in an old squirrels nest set in the fork of a tall tree, tossing old leaves this way and that, perhaps searching for morsels, perhaps rearranging the structure for its own purposes, certainly busy about something. And on the ground, from the vantage of a fallen log, a hermit thrush silently watching me watching the flicker, bright eyes fixed curiously upon the human standing in the middle of the road.

There are the white-throats, rummaging around in the leaf litter and the rush of wings just as I am getting a good look at them. And the male and female robin having what looks and sounds for all the world like a winter-weary irritated couple's spat, unmindful of me altogether.

Yesterday's light layer of snow has filled the cracks and crevices of fallen trunks and brings the forest floor into sharp relief. Lustrous holly leaves glisten in the sun and shelf fungi run up the skeletons of old trees, who appear indistinguishable from their living neighbors, except for this adornment.

Waiting...what was it Mr Rogers used to sing? "Let's think of something to do while we're waiting, while we're waiting, let's think of something to do."  What better than going out into the cold (even if only for a little while), breathing the frosty air, walking on frozen ground and listening to the crunch of feet on the grass and leaves, noticing the birds or the squirrels or the trees or the lacy patterns of ice crystals on standing stalks. 

Three months until the wood thrush song. In the meantime, I have a lot of living to do.