here comes the sun, “cue the music my good man, make it so!” (hey, I have been watching Picard, slack me), and so by comparison this is a bounty, a parade, a glorious celebration, when not taking phone calls about windows computing pratfalls I venture outside to literally soak it in, the applied balm for what ills when stuck inside for days at a time, behind brooding clouds and held down by winds of lousy content, the rain is good for the green but perhaps not for the heart I think, maybe not the most scientific method, but in this, I must trust, something else – instinct.
a single spider thread catches my eye, winking in the sunlight like a mirrored line, just one thread, not a web, a prelude to a night trap, and I can see the quarry, there is a small swarm of some type of insect milling about, haphazard to my eye but they know their own purpose, no doubt, a mild winter and a wet spring, there will be lots of bugs around this summer (pun intended if you catch my drift), but these winged fellows are not bothering me, so I can’t hate them for their relations, their pesky cousins and whatnot, we all have them after all, we choose our friends, not our families, I imagine insects are the same, can’t blame the fireflies for the mosquitoes, at least that seems unreasonable to me, it would be easy to parlay hate of one insect bite into a whole genus, and that would be unwise, besides, there is a chain in place, at least for now, a pecking order, or a picking at the buffet order, I imagine the spider putting on a bib, lining up a table, knife and fork in hand, ready for the bounty coming.
the lower branches
the little ones, as I call them, finches and that sort to be clear, seem to love the bosom of the bottom branches of the bushes, especially the evergreens, the short ones, the stout ones, vertically challenged I believe is the ‘nome de acceptable’ (my term)… either way, it leads me to think of the lower branches, certainly not as much sunlight, not as easy to navigate than the outer reaches, protection from the rain perhaps, the sanctity of closed spaces, for three, four, more I see them, darting in and out like feathered laser beams, so exact, quick, manic seeming even, I wonder if I resemble that after three cups of coffee, or so I am told I can be high wired, these little ones, a maelstrom of fidgets, I imagine the lower branches appeal to their sense of security, or fear of heights? nah, that would be silly for a bird, not this one (me) but I should not transfer my human fears onto them, I take note of all the hierarchy, air and ground, what led each to such choices, noble patrolman, the robins, like guards, running back and forth on the grass, not bird-like at all, even squabbling over land claims with their own, blue jays seem undecided, maybe they just take the best of both land and wind, I see them scavenging on lawn and wing, the mourning doves content to feed on feeder scraps, easily spooked and fled, with their tell tale ‘coo coo’, nature has produced many successful designs, mine included, I just wonder which branch I would gravitate to, how about you?
I can see the wind
what a strange thought, not literal, but yet not false, entirely, wind is sometimes a bludgeon, other times a feather swipe, today she is cascading, moving across in an unmarked mass leaving footprints across all the leaves, and there is where I can see her, flowing across the surface, as the branches bend and release, ever closer, I can see her approaching, and then in an instant she has rushed over me like water on an outcrop river rock, as I am not a natural thing with my feet roots not quite firmly planted like most everything else, I happen to be observing, an interloper of sorts, that is, and this is more of a gentle deliberate freight train, so behind in steps sisters the same, nearly the same bends and waves as I watch them approach, anticipating the moment of break upon my space, across my face, my hands, temporarily dousing the warm of sun, so you can be lullaby-ed again by rays in the next moment, ah the blessed sun, where have you been hiding all these days?
notes… well, a mixed bag incidentally, so am I, I must admit the muse seems more absent these days, maybe, but what do I know ? this was all written today in various forms and modes, things catch my eye, my pen is another thing, my pen… or this keyboard, sometimes it varies, lately it has been all freeform for the most part, stream of consciousness and the like, the poems seem faint and distant, I have a well I can draw from but man that all seems old, I like to post new, I have hundreds of pages of material, but after you move on and look back? it seems old, dated, there is really nothing like the immediate…