I caught this morning morning’s minion, king-
dom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his riding
Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding
High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing
In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,
As a skate’s heel sweeps smooth on a bow-bend: the hurl and gliding
Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding
Stirred for a bird,—the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!
Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here
Buckle! AND the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion
Times told lovelier, more dangerous, O my chevalier!
No wonder of it: sheer plod makes plough down sillion
Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,
Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermillion.
For anyone interested, I’ve finally started selling prints of some of my paintings. (I still want to fully redo my site when depression/fatigue will let me — and I’m still very insecure about my painting in general — but I’ve had enough requests about this that I decided throwing together a quick solution for now was better than nothing.)
Thanks for the support and encouragement.
On returning from the poetry event: Cloudburst Council in the Finger Lakes and Montezuma Wildlife Refuge on Mother’s Day
And what is Cloudburst?
Do not even angels have rust on their wings?
Is it the Robin
you have to ask
why you are there
which is the Robin’s question
and you have an answer also ‒
to see that Robin as if
there were no lens in your eye
only merely ‒ simply ‒ there
no camera to record the moment
filtering thereness onto paper ‒
if only slightly ‒
the sound ‒
the Robin at your elbow almost
speaking just to you
perhaps speaking also
just a little
to the poet next to you
who is looking for
herons and Sandhill Cranes
maybe just one of them
but in itself
We do not see the nest
until we begin
to walk away.