Under Warning of Birds
The fog lingers in the corners of things: crotch of hill, the edge of blue sky left smudged.
Yesterday, under the oaks and pines blue jays erupted into a dapple of sound and warning.
When I looked up to the spinning trees, every one rustled with their weight and sound.
We had gone to the creek to find solace from the heat, from the work of the day, but we found only warning.
I could feel time coil itself like a snake. That’s when I gave him my memory like a doppelganger.
The place is like that, I say. It's a place to linger and forget. He giggles. Already able-bodied as his burried Pa.
A simple S-shaped bend in the creek. Limestone-bedded. The gentle trickle of a summer waterfall.
If we listen to the birds, if we watch the sky, if we follow the press of guilt and duty, we’ll never see what is hidden in the dark water.
It only takes a few found sticks. A willingness to find the hidden life of salamanders and crawfish to clear the creek of what keeps the water from flowing.
Dead leaves, silt, a tree branch, stones.
In a few weeks, the harvest will begin. Already the tart green orbs burn from the fingers of trees.
When we plowed the field, dust veiled our life. Even this morning I was still sweeping dust from the wooden floor in front of the stove.
Even under warning of birds, joy enters our bodies at the corners, smudged and unbidden.