January's Song

When the earth is as hard as the rocks piled at the edge of the field,
tufted titmice whistle as they forage from hedgerow and feeder,

when snow buries the landscape and icicles hang from the branches,
dark-eyed juncos trill in the soft sunlight, feasting on sycamore seeds,

when winds sweep across the pasture and seep through the cracks in the old barn,
Carolina wrens chatter as they pick dried insects from old spider webs in the rafters,

when Orion and Gemini hover as pinpricks of light in the dark winter sky,
great horned owls whisper a distant duet in the mountains behind the house.

 

Holy Heralds

Holy Heralds

they are,
not angels proclaiming
on this Christmas dawn,
but sleepy rustlings
and voices 
from fields
and barn.

White-throats and cardinals,
softly chipping  
in the meadow
at first light,
hallow
the cold and cloudy
greyness
with their glad
tidings

The goats' quiet
nickering
greet the only shepherd
present
in the stable
this morning,
tending her flock in the darkness,
and humming hymns
of the One
newly born. 

Awaken!
The Holy has come,
Christmas
slipping in
through the
sacred ordinary 
of this
day of days,
once again.

 

The Herald on St Brigid's Day

He commences in mid-winter, 
when the landscape is frozen and
blanketed with snow
and the ice that does not crack
beneath my feet.
There have been other murmurings,
muffled whisperings and chip notes
from white-throats and 
song sparrows,
the short-lived, rollicking chorus
of the Carolina wren,
a snatch of the towhee's song,
as if he had forgotten himself and 
absentmindedly spoken
aloud.

On warmer days
house finches trot out their first phrases,
and the cardinal in the arborvitae
tentatively tunes up his whistle but,
as the next storm descends,
expectations recede and
their voices still.
It is not yet time.

Still, there are those who
carry hope, who,
even as snow swirls and
the temperatures plummet,
have begun the song that,
is now unquenchable. 
Tufted titmice, those jaunty, bright-eyed,
grey little beings who
flit after one another through the woodlands,
are enthusiastically
thinking spring thoughts
on these frigid,
though lengthening,
days.

For those who have ears,
their simple notes bless
our winter weariness
with an absolute
annual promise.
No matter how seemingly far off,
the earth will soften
once again
and spring will
slowly,
stealthily,
almost invisibly,
begin.

Who knows?
Perhaps,
it already
has.

February 1st is the feast day of St Brigid, Ireland's beloved saint, which coincides with the festival of Imbolc, the beginning of spring in the ancient Irish calendar.

What Better Way?

What better way to greet the dawn this chilly,
drizzly, breezy morning than to wander,
wrapped in my old blanket,
among the damp salvia and agastache
and asters, blues and purples all,
or to delight in the sunny late black-eyed Susans
and the scarlet of the young blueberries
against the backdrop of slowly-turning autumn
colors of the woods?

How better to welcome the
newness of today 
than listening to the rhythm of the rain,
to the early cries of blue jays,
of crows and cardinals and
white-throated sparrows and the 
melodies of still-present crickets and katydids,
counting down what is left of the lingering
warm days of the year?

We are on the cusp of the Earth's long rest but,
like a child not yet ready for bed,
she prances and twirls,
showing off her extravagant colors and
throwing down her fruit...
abundance free for the taking, 
inviting all who are willing into
her dance of renewal.

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.