10 miles.
Things Sprinklers Sound Like
Quails, with their tear-drop plumes draping from their foreheads like cast fishing poles, calling in their three-note chi-ca-go, after roosting nightly in trees and shrubs, choosing daily the run in which to fly.
The scratching of squirrels in a chase up kingly oaks. Beneath, gradations of full-bodied acorns to the finely ground of cornmeal from traffic bring to mind the green-to-red coloration of tomatoes and turning crowns of trees.
The warmth of the strong summer midnight rain rushing through leaves as I lay on green-drenched grass.
The whooshing and whishing of trees and leaves in wind, and ocean waves crumbling beach coasts with their touch.
Not butterflies playing leaf on urban city sidewalks.
Not cone bracts playing slumbering or nesting bumblebees on amber pine needled- and red ivy-weaved grey paths.
Not the frosty chill of an October morning, its crepuscular gusts of icy cold that rush my face like biting, prickly rain.
Not the black-billed magpies with their azure wings and long tails, rampant and unpredictable, high spirited and expressive, loudly chattering their rapid series of chak notes interspersed with the important maag message to their steely blue-black crow cousins.
“Good morning, Mr. Magpie,” I say to the first one I see, bowing.
One for sorrow,
Two for joy,
Three for a girl,
Four for a boy,
Five for silver,
Six for gold,
And seven for a secret never to be told.
I chant to keep the cold from creeping into my bones.
The copper and the gold,
The new and the old.
They say it heals all wounds,
But time, it can bruise
A deep purple and blue.
The veil thins but I am listening.
I hold golden acorns, leaves, pumpkins, and seeds in my hands.
Fire lights the palms of my hands.
GL, 10/3/2009. Prevail.
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Crepuscular. That is a good word, a personal favorite. A lovely entry, m'dear.
ReplyDeletePersonally, I have never heard the word crepuscular before this, but your post, as usual, is just a delight to read.
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