A Deep River Year - 2017
At last it is warm, and early in the morning it is good to walk with a slower step. I breathe deep of the soft air. By the pond behind the Library, green buds swell and the grass rises in clumps where, not too long ago, the earth was scraped into ridges by big orange snow plows that couldn't see where the asphalt ended and the lawn began. The dogs are delighted to smell that upturned earth, perhaps discovering ancient scents long buried beneath ...our winters.
At last it is warm, and early in the morning it is good to walk with a slower step. I breathe deep of the soft air. By the pond behind the Library, green buds swell and the grass rises in clumps where, not too long ago, the earth was scraped into ridges by big orange snow plows that couldn't see where the asphalt ended and the lawn began. The dogs are delighted to smell that upturned earth, perhaps discovering ancient scents long buried beneath ...our winters.
This daybreak is not silent. It is alive with birdsong, for the creatures who live above us know that it is Spring, too. Redwings sway on the dessicated stalks of cattails and trill for all they're worth. The crows line up on the telephone lines and honk noisily at the dogs. I hear the sweet punctuation of a cardinal and the bright carolling of robins in pursuit of worms. This loveliness is not lost on me. Today is shadowed by children dying in a war-torn land, their pictures splayed on television and downloaded into my heart. I will have a funeral to attend in the afternoon, and a mother's tender hand will no longer touch her daughter's face. A friend prepares for a doctor's scalpel to cut through flesh to find the hiding place of an alien tumor. I miss my son.
These, things, too, come with me into my morning. And then I am startled, at the edge of the pond, when a great blue heron spreads its wings and flies up, almost close enough to touch. I gasp, then laugh, as the dogs leap in surprise. I watch it soar away, beyond the rim of trees, and feel the ripples of life circling out into the world.
Morning Heron
I walk on clotted earth,
my feet heavy on the world.
It is wet with morning,
turning death into something green.
I am quiet,
though the day is not.
Songs fall from the air,
like rain
upon the heavy silence
I carry on my back.
And then
from the edge of sight,
rising, rising
a winged god awakens.
A rush of air
a touch of feathers
bends the bright day
upwards,
and for a moment
carries the whole creation
into the light.
--Timothy Haut
These, things, too, come with me into my morning. And then I am startled, at the edge of the pond, when a great blue heron spreads its wings and flies up, almost close enough to touch. I gasp, then laugh, as the dogs leap in surprise. I watch it soar away, beyond the rim of trees, and feel the ripples of life circling out into the world.
Morning Heron
I walk on clotted earth,
my feet heavy on the world.
It is wet with morning,
turning death into something green.
I am quiet,
though the day is not.
Songs fall from the air,
like rain
upon the heavy silence
I carry on my back.
And then
from the edge of sight,
rising, rising
a winged god awakens.
A rush of air
a touch of feathers
bends the bright day
upwards,
and for a moment
carries the whole creation
into the light.
--Timothy Haut
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