I sat on a ledge of a canyon. Listening.
Listening to an unseen female shrike faintly calling.
A begging, part of her species ritual. Every year at this time.
A soft begging call, as the male brings her food.
Oh, she is quite capable, and does forage on her own.
But still, the call of the female shrike;
Calling to the other.
A dance as old in days and generations as is her species.
Ah..., listen to her.
Where is she?
Shhh...
listen.
BAM!!!
The soundwave weaves, spiderweb-like;
coursing through the acoustics provided by this many canyoned island side.
Quickly travelling through mine.
The soft, ancient call of the shrike in another early spring
So quietly.
Ah, she's on the far ridge.
See?
See?
Well perhaps she'll call again.
BAM!!! Echo...Echo...Echo...a distant BOOOoooooommm
The Sun has been more consistant lately in her warming
of the clear March, Pacific air.
Like my spirit at this moment, at this time of year
Butterflies lift and dance among the wildflowers
and water-carved walls.
The call of the spring shrike.
A fritillary flutters by like orange confetti paper.
A tiny blue stops on a nearby grass
Opening its wings, warmth is upon us again.
It stops just long enough to make eye-contact
And then flutters away, like a kiss blown by Earth herself.
BAM!!! Echo...Echo...Echo...a distant BOOOoooooommm
The shrike calls to her other.
The butterfly, aided by the wind, floats over the deep. Over where echos live.
The battleship, in the marine-layer haze, smokes.
Species and their rituals.
©-mwyork, 5 Mar 2008
2 comments:
Thank you for three breath-taking moments...two pictures and one important poem.
Thank you and amen.
bd
Actually, four breath-taking moments...add Stafford's poem (I was referring to your poem in my first comment)
bd
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