Marilyn Armstrong is a favorite. This morning’s post seems . . . well . . . downright serendipitous!
We lug heavy bags of birdseed
from store to car to garage
steel storage can to feeders.
We keep squirrels away.
We watch the birds feast.
We fertilize and water and prune
the young fruit trees in the orchard
and see blossoms, then growing fruit.
Cherries are loved by birds and us.
Let birds eat seeds–nets mean pies.
that birds love.
Transplanted small trees
around our home
are now large,
and at first light, noisy.
Springtime is the loudest.
Breeding has begun.
The travelers have returned:
finches, swallows, robins,
Our dead end rural road
has little traffic even later
in the day–none at 5 am in May.
No sound but bird song:
Coos, chirps, whistles,
call and response.
The choir has no conductor
that we see.
– Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, May 9, 2013
There is a warning whisper in the wind.
The birds have heard and gather on a wire
to watch. My old ears cannot hear much sound
without my aids. I search and finally find
new batteries: the wind becomes a roar!
I quickly dial them down from music to
a conversation: whistles, whines and more
now wind around our house. The clouds race to
go there from here, and here from there. I see
the colors change from white to grey. The snow
begins to fall and white returns in swirls. The ice
forms on the twigs–the trees begin to know
they’re in a struggle with the wind. They try
to bend, and hope the promise was a lie.
– Verse “The Promise of a Storm” – Steve Shoemaker, Urbana, IL, Feb. 22, 2013