Month: May 2026

 

Each morning in May

a small bird,

common, undistinguished,

black headed and grey

flies against the bedroom window

Again and again,

beginning his day.

 

Wings spread,

Resting on the sill a bit 

here and there

Earnest, peering through the glass,

as if wanting 

to find a way to pass

Into a place

yet unexplored.

 

It is strange, I think,

that he does this only

every morning 

at a certain time

while I lie in bed,

watching the light 

change on the hills,

clearing my head 

from sleep.

 

It seems as if he wants 

to enjoy another world

That appears unseparate

from the rest of 

what he knows

yet impenetrable.

Perhaps, I speculate, 

it is his morning practice

Before he starts

his work at eight.

 

In the evenings 

In the apple trees

he sings a two note song

cheerfully for hours

telling all who have ears

that these are his grounds

for the hunting of bugs

and the enjoyment of bees.

His trees for perching

and guarding his nest

HIs place in the space 

of the world

where he and his mate

feed new birds 

to move through air

who knows yet where.

 

And there was that moment

when the sun had not yet

filled every molecule

with its warmth

that I walked out 

to check the garden

and, glancing back at 

that window 

where this play

had just unfolded

through my window on the world

in all that changing light,

I saw instead a hole 

in the face of the wall

Filled with all those apple branches

I’d been seeing from my bed 

Unblossomed by late spring

Reflected now as if they grew

inside.

 

Just the way the bird, 

I knew just then,

sees a darkened space

with a male bird

just like him, 

flying through,

who must want, 

he’s sure 

to emerge from some other 

mysterious place

and take on all 

that he himself defends.

 

He flies at it. 

As if the peace of all

depends on driving it away

but the other 

just advances still

and retreats

until it, too, tires 

and sinks to rest

Down upon the sill.

 

There is no defeat. 

He does not decide

to fly away.

He must continue 

‘til a human sound

from another world

so loud

drives him from the fray.

 

Is it just a stupid bird

whose mind is just a rudiment

of ours

or do we all

lie dreaming on one side 

or another of that

mysterious space unknown

Finding impediment

to our flight 

just when we thought 

there would be none

As creatures of a planet

who all fly relentlessly 

against  illusions

until their time is spent?

 

Then throw the window open

And let the bird fly in

You’ll laugh out loud

To find those worlds 

help separate, secret

Undefined

With wildness

Are unbound.

 

Two mugs of milky tea

In the morning

Waiting for the inspiration 

of the minutely marvelous to take hold

I try to catch the dream

That had followed me

back into sleep this morning

before I reopened my eyes 

to watch the mist unfold over

that now so familiar meeting 

of two hills

Where trees, some dark,

some light with spring’s still

clinging emeralds

Flow down the curves 

of two of earth’s ample breasts

To meet  where the heart beats quietly

In the middle 

of that soft, dark-pined chest

 

The dream flows in mists

Of thought

That quickly drift in the breeze 

of morning’s sun

The feeling of it catches behind 

my eyes

Its fine thread elusive 

A skein unwinding much too fast 

to catch the end and

It is gone.

 

There is a brief time of sun now

Between the rains

That have become 

the norm of May 

In this, the beginning of 

mighty mountains.

There is a moment

Of strangely marvelous 

bright green peace 

while the neighborhood cat

prowls the lawn 

and pounces suddenly

hoping it has caught the mouse

that  in reality moved 

much too quickly to be trapped.

Paws outstretched, he waits 

a moment to be sure

and then moves on, undeterred 

by any shame

to find another small scratching

somewhere in the grass.

 

Yet soon the green begins to dim

As the tall bright clouds 

with inner souls of darkness

Rise up in majestic 

dreamlike languor, merging here and there

to diminish whatever space of blue 

remains.

 

One never knows, they say,

here in the mountains,

Whether the clouds 

will finally bring

the heavy streams of rain, 

or pass over, in their own time,

Outside of our time 

With only their sad greyness

that we retain

as some strange feeling

of unease 

Left as if by some fleeting 

and yet haunting 

dream.