Go then, Great Bear, to your den beside the frozen pond,
and there retreat as the Cold Moon
traces its arc in the star-frosted sky.
Sleep now, for winter is long,
your breathing slow and shallow
as the sun tosses its golden coin
and turns to catch it.
Dream, now, of roots and berries,
of the plant medicine that will heal us when we awaken
with the sun’s return.
Rest, as Ursa Major, your spirit cousin in the sky,
points the way to Polaris
and shows us each
the way to our true north.
The Owl of this hour of wonder
–as old as the year–as cold as the frost—
–as weary as the trees as they let go their leaves–
Perched on the limbs of fading light, she has dozed through the days of December.
Imagine her now turning her head to gaze wide-eyed into this darkness.
With the patience that wisdom bestows
she makes a slow survey of the moonlit path to your door.
Grandmother of the forest, Guardian of the graves on the hill,
keep watch with us
as we light our candles
as we kindle our fires.
What silent sound
in the gray and green
of the path?
What breath beside
this waiting ear?
Which green dream
of walking palms
wild ginger
fingered ferns
trailing ficus?
Which memory
in the long bone
of this spine
plucked the harp string
of this neck
and, unthinking,
she turned her head
in time
to see.
No, not possible, he said,
maybe a bird.
No, she insists:
four legs, this tall,
white, sleek, elusive.
What does it mean, she wonders,
when someone crosses your path,
emerging from the untrod,
present just long enough
to appear
and melting, then, back
into formless memory?
White jaguar spirit
or pale deer
or trackless puma
of the forest
and its filtered light
its floor of rain-slick mud and crawling roots
its curtains of shadow
its warm wetness—
She walks on,
hopes the mystery remains unsolved,
holds the beast in her heart.
A crow on a branch
of that old Norway maple
and then another
a third alights
and off they fly to the backyard trees.
They are free to go
and return,
as is the lone gull
and the loon who passes
on his daily flight
from lake to bay
and the cardinal couple
always in tandem
and the robins in late winter
nipping at the wrinkled burgundy crab apples.
They range over our plots
and lots and garden fences
our tenderly tended slices
of the village pie.
Perhaps I’ll hang a house and a feeder
to lure these songsters
these blues and yellows, browns and reds
into my domesticity.
But really what I want is
that lift at my shoulder blades
that unfolding of wings
that unrehearsed melody
as I take to the air
through the open window.
In the distance
a blue heron
at large in flight
ungainly wing span
neck of necks
enigmatically looped
he lands at the edge
of reeds and mud
king of marshes
royal hunter of fishes
beak like a sword
he sights his prey
lengthens and thrusts
the elegant hose neck
majestic loner
of blue gray proportions.
Knowing full well
I am watching
he ignores me
on one leg
posed
for more important conquests.
As I approach
he fans his wings
lifts
and forgets me.
For a moment
I am lonelier
than I know,
receding,
my spirit unhooked
like a winded kite.
In the amnesia of insight
I write this
as if
you too
were hearing
the wings beat
the salt air
feeling the feathers
circle your throat
as the blue heron
leaves you
with this same unspeakable longing.
I suspect these words
are not enough,
slant and unstable as they are,
sodden with ink and overuse,
to thread my sight
through your eyes
to follow his flight
of hollow bones
and wet feathers.
All the same
I walk home
picking up words
like stones from a beach
placing them
in twos and threes
looking for a pattern
that speaks
this language.
Bones and bits
of bird flesh
wet feathers
sticking
to a body skeleton
long and leggy.
How unexpected
an encounter
death and a bird
at the turn
on a path
of berry bushes
of old trees
and wild irises.
I should have
walked on,
left dumb death
on the wet sand path
to stare forever
from a lidless round eye.
Instead I bent
and touched the wing tip
like a cat or a priestess
willing a sign.
But no.
The island air
was damp.
The great blue
was crooked and
broken but
perfectly proportioned
still.
Changed forever by a moment,
the body only slowly
catching up.
Land I have lost.
Scars on my eyes.
A wounded deer
comes to my door.
The forest of her fate
is private property now.
Her hooves mark the woolly thyme
that edges the garden path,
her breath marks the coming of winter.
I remember, I tell her:
We dug a hole in the ground
we buried our treasures
and promised never to forget
the wordless knowledge
the bond from earth to flesh
the close fragrance of dampening leaves
the countless colors of brown and green
the circle of friends
offering ourselves
to the circle of pines
innocent in our rituals.
And now she comes
wandering wounded.
The rivers of her thirst are dust,
the old paths have been
carelessly renamed,
the pines of our sacred ground
felled.
I make a place for her
in my garden.
I stroke her fur,
look into her almond eyes.
I haven’t forgotten, I tell her:
You stood guard
over our innocence,
my nahual, animal spirit,
but the tables have turned
and now I must fight
for your life.
Two giraffes delicately circle
a eucalyptus tree
primordial necks
like swaying highways
running
they are the envy
of elephants.
Nothing is finer
than that place of grace
where each toad and tapir
meets its moment
of perfection:
the elegant sweep
of the extravagant-tailed quetzal
resplendent in the rain forest
the whiskered manatee
floating among the mangroves
like a perfect potato
the rhinoceros
wading weightless
in the watering hole
the lanky flamingo
pink in flight
in the blue Caribbean sky.
An iguana leaves a tail track
in the sand
knobs its way up
the ringed column
of a coconut palm
looks down with hooded eyes.
Every time I glance up
it’s still there,
sitting as it does
serene and quietly
removed
so mournful
sage
and reptile
so close to stones
hot sand
and unpainted tin roofs.
Lush tail feathers
and the peacock lift
of eyebrow
the sheen
as if this blue and green
were the answer to yesterday’s dream
the pleats of his fan
unfold one
by one
his eye like
a black opal burns in
its own light.
janetngold 