A Deep River Year
 September 17, 2014   

It is early morning, just before sunrise, and we are walking by the place where the old river road passes over the marsh.   The cove is filled with the long, grassy heads of wild rice.  No wonder that hundreds of red-winged blackbirds gather here.   Along the railroad tracks the chatter of birds is constant, as if a great meeting is in progress.    In the open water, swans, geese and ducks awaken, ready to find breakfast in the muck below the surface.   They flap their wings excitedly, then turn upside-down to feast, ignorant of the human presence.

Walking along the tracks, the air is rich with the aroma of wild concord grapes.   The remnants of acorns decorate the ground under tall oak trees.   And here and there long spires of goldenrod reach for the light.  Summer days slip past this way.   Up on the hill the apple trees are heavy with fruit, and down here, by the river, the leaves are already changing color.   It is cold here in the morning, and we walk quickly toward a new season.

The blackbirds know.   Their song is not the joyous trill of April.   It is really not a song at all, but the incessant noise of conversation.  They chatter, then rise and circle only to descend again into the lush grasses.   The prattle of birds goes on.    We cannot understand the subject of their communication.   Perhaps it is a sound made in assurance that in the failing light and the dying down of things, they are not alone.  We seek this too, in some ways.   We yearn to find company in the coming of darkness.   Some of us hold on to a companion simply out of that fear--that terror of growing old alone.   We are creatures who need others, need to hear voices.   We take wing, feel the tug and pull of seasons and stars.   Sooner or later the time will come when we must go.   But we will not do it alone.

Blackbird Promise

They gather here
in the tall marsh grass
singing a raucous song.
to the morning.
In blood and bone
they feel autumn's warning,
know the taste of darkness, cold and death.
It will not be long,
this goodness, this grace
of flower and seed.
The grapes are falling,
and the wild asters tell the tale
of a world that forever changes.
Now it is time to gather,
to be a living cloud,
or a congregation uncontained,
murmuring their practiced prayers
and exulting in the gold and green
of September's joyous day.
It seems they hear some secret signal,
then suddenly rise together into the blue
for a precious little while,
as if something should be seen,
or a promise could be made here.
They trust this:
The sun will rise.
The river will run.
They will wing their way together
into some new day.

--Timothy Haut, September 17, 2014