May 7.22: Coping, but barely

This was me

and this was you,

our wings be-fuzzed,

mysterious, new.

Tipping, toppling,

learning where

we stopped and started,

unaware

of cliffs and quicksand,

Pandora’s box,

we braved the world

of thorns and rocks.

Or so we thought. The really brave

were those close by

who hovered and watched

with wary eye,

letting us learn

from life’s tough classes

even if we fell

on our little

ummm

grasses.

 

Tomorrow is Mothers’ Day here; I am not a fan. I think it’s become a national day of panic. But that does not mean I don’t value mothering. I absolutely do. There are many who mother even if they’ve never given birth, and I salute every one.

Please pardon the quality of the photo, dear reader. You probably, and rightly, guessed that I was hunched down behind Venetian blinds muttering to that baby to HOLD STILL. He didn’t. Mother Goose (so to speak) did not cast a benign eye on me.

 

 

April 27.22: Coping, but barely

The tortoise and the hare

have nothing on this pair.

The smugger the daunt,

the cheerier the taunt:

“Ya snooze, ya lose, mon frère!”

Yes, dear reader, I heard it myself.

That’s exactly what the little guy said as he churned by.

April 15.22: Coping, but barely

The art of the photo:

part timing, part luck.

Thus my photo

of a diving duck.

 

 

April 9.22: Coping, but barely

 

“Hello! I must be going!”

a tune too rarely heard,

wafted through the air

from waddling squatty bird.

Crestfallen and bewildered,

the pup, his tail a-droop,

wondered if he’d erred

in mention of “Duck Soup.”

The huffy Madame Mallard,

like all good critic quackers,

made it known that she prefers

the classic “Animal Crackers.”

 

With a salute to Marx Brothers movies:

“Animal Crackers” (1930)

“Duck Soup” (1933)

(What else would a dog and duck talk about?)

March 18.22: Coping, but barely

A tourist stopped in Mallardville,

to see what might be there,

sidled up to locals

in competing savoir faire.

The Monsieurs sized each other up

in manly bivouac

while Madame Mallard plainly

didn’t seem to give a quack.

 

March 13.22: Coping, but barely

A robin skims the frosty grass,

stopping, starting, stopping;

the housefinch goes a-nesting,

pecking, pulling, hopping.

The chickadee, bright eye on me,

zigzags in spritely play;

the sun, at rise and setting,

is chirped along its way.

As winter’s bony grip

reluctantly lets go,

songbirds return a-twitter

in growing crescendo.

Far away in birddom

the elders meet en masse,

solemn, introspective,

with all due gravitas.

Somber-visaged sages,

exchanging thought and word,

they ponder and deliberate

what it means to be a bird.

The enigma of horizon,

the mystery of skies

inform their academia

as they Socratize.

Music quite eludes them

but they don’t think it wrong

that others ponder being

in transiency of song.

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg.

And, of course, to the pelicans.

February 4.22: Coping

This bossy bird

with sword-like cry

stabbed my head

though pleased my eye.

My shovel rang out

through the snow;

he seemed to think me

slothful though.

He barked his mind

in notes of steel

that I had

insufficient zeal.

Bossy bird!

Why don’t you fly

somewhere that wants you

not nearby?

But then an echo

sliced the air —

his ladylove?

OK! Go there!

She and he,

buzz-saw duet,

each one playing

hard to get.

But still I heard

him like drill master

prodding me

to shovel faster.

Though lovely in his

lofty venue,

blue jay pie

was on my menu.

 

 

January 19.22: Coping

A bit of brown bird,

his feathers a-fluff,

perched on the noon of my day.

So tiny a plume

seemed hardly enough,

but he blasted the doldrums away.

I do believe, dear reader, that this is a Carolina Wren. I was walking the familiar carpet path in familiar routine when he (barely) caught my eye, and I nearly undid myself getting to the camera without scaring him off. The sighting of anything other than the occasional crow is unheard of right now, and this little being was therefore all the more miraculous.

 

 

 

 

 

August 1.21: Coping

Gnoshing in the marsh

beneath the summer skies,

smoked fish the blue plate special

to heron’s gulped surprise.

From ashen cloud an eagle’s

gravelly croak is heard:

“Can the presidential seal

be changed to coughing bird?”

 

 

More thanks to photographer S.W. Berg,

braving the smoke from the west

hovering over Virginia.

 

 

 

July 24.21: Coping

Microbially small against the clouds,

a fearless speck of bird

whose fury I could feel

jetted in short,

tense,

jabbing

zig-zag;

the massive hawk,

wide-winged

sky stalker,

bucked,

twisted,

dodged.

I held my breath,

afraid, almost,

to think that

what matters

is not our size

but what we defend.