i said to myself thinking about

 

 

 

i said to myself thinking about

a hawk    while sitting again in an orientation

presentation, the picture windows in

front of me – woods – and wondering

what and where – and what connections,

my son sitting beside me, would and

will and might make – and then on

cue as if on cue a large bird,

hawk, undoubtedly,   flew  from right

to left       and landed in the uppermost

branches of one of the many

trees.

 

 

 

I woke up thinking about waves

 

 

 

I woke up thinking about waves

and letting a wave go, what it

looks like continuing,   what

that thought is, that image and

another that follows it    a familiar

looking window up a familiar looking

street in autumn or an open

sky of a particular color blue tinted

with a hint of violet      letting that

wave go to what is awakened again

sound of voice of a friend’s

mother but not because the mother

’s was not often at sing-songy,

letting the wave see the appearance

of the child at reunion – a mother

pulling behind her her small rolling

suitcase up the sidewalk,    and

her barely contained, not contained

joy, even in the inelegance of this

this old carry-on, pull along suit-case

approaching what is still her child’s dorm,

wave, i woke up thinking about all

the colors, and the sound,

and that color   sound     appeared

in the air,   for moments,   i woke up

saying   think about the wave   keep adding a     

moment   to the wave

 

 

 

the dog will want to be let in

 

 

 

the dog will want to be let in

as you are/i am meditating —

the hawk

lands in tree at moment of thought

the dog

returns to screen door

at moment

of revelation

the hawk takes

off with its considerable weight

from tree in yard

right to

left      upward            higher

into       tree           two      houses

away      across      the alley.

 

 

 

 

it is of course

 

 

 

it is of course

all transit

the two holly trees against the fence

the arrival of the hummingbirds

their departure

the small grey dove beneath

the slatted metal table

taking shelter in the rain

in the aftermath

of hurricane; the dog asleep

beside, inside, adjusting

to house now with her

two protectees matured and walking into

wide-spaced well-spaced parentheses

 

 

 

the way a hummingbird feeds, drinks, eats

 

 

 

the way a hummingbird feeds, drinks, eats

is neither hurried nor slowed, it is simply

itself taking in nutrient in amount in

interval    bent neck/smooth back of head,

straightened head,   repeat, several times

in its manner,   at its table,   and

then to perch, or up above to hidden

or unconcealed branch above

in hackberry which it does

not disdain, and again to above

somewhere perhaps a thimble nest

is in-set; while another humming-

bird feeds, drinks, eats; it is

neither hurried nor is it slowed,

it is its time, not heron, time,

it is time of flutter,             again

appears      these moments ———— the hand

of infant      suspended mid air

for a moment unimaginably long

the air still imagined as a globe of

amniotic fluid

 

 

 

I am visited by hummingbirds; it is that

 

 

 

I am visited by hummingbirds; it is that

time of the year; all that is necessary is

to fill the feeder, to keep it clean, to

refill it; the parts of sugar to water

are one part sugar to four parts

water, boil, let cool, then keep

the extra nectar refrigerated; this

nectar in the feeder for these

hummingbirds may stay in place for

several days – but then it does go

bad and develop little black spots,

and it will make these working birds

ill as they are storing up for

travel   and so it is a reminder

to the self to think about the throat

and neck   and beak,   the tiny

little eyes of what delights

us,   when it arrives,    and comes

to us,   pauses alights,   what

flutters– what chooses,   for some

reason   or reasons   that point

in our gaze.

 

 

 

 

this is the morning of the total eclipse

 

 

 

This is the morning of the total eclipse.

A neighbor is mowing his lawn.

The crickets are humming a high pitched

full echo

the sky is clear                  the sky is bright.

this morning no hummingbirds visited

the hummingbird feeder or drank that

nectar     which i had changed

at least   while i sat there   watching

during that brief time span of considering

the events of the day and the day before.

 

 

 

 

i now know to look for the thimble-sized nest

 

 

 

 

i now know to look for the thimble-sized nest

among the leaves of the hackberry-tree – somewhere

in all probability it will be there – among one

of those trees – so disparaged – of – the tiny

cup of a house covered in lichen and moss

with the children who will be movers and

shakers the ones who cannot sit still in pre

school their searching and pointy beaks saying here?

here?   –––––––––––––––––                                                       yeah

zip                                                                                    gotta