Saturday, February 8, 2014

The last bird out

I was at the farm this morning.  The temperature was just below freezing.  All of the accumulated ground water was somewhere between ice and slush.  Not. a. sound.  Not. a. single. sound.  I saw a sparrow light momentarily in a fence row and then vanish in an invisible flutter of wings as if someone had passed a magic wand over it.  I looked at the stark barren trees, the defeated grass, and noted how the old barn seemed to blend perfectly with its surroundings.  A chameleon effect.  It's times like these when the best thing for me to do is think about what lies ahead versus getting caught up in the grey day.  Thank God my hippocampus has a nice store of memories that can at least attempt to override reality.  I'm quite sure the old barn feels the same way.

The last bird out
(I think it was a finch
And perhaps late November?)
Grabbed the detritus of color
Already smeared
By Autumn's clumsy brush.

Collapsing the sounds

Now I slosh through sepia
Caked with winter's crackling quiet
Peering through frosty glass
Until the first bird in
(A martin? A robin red?)
Arrives with a fresh palette/palate

Pregnant with screaming sound.

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