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THE FARTHERMOST VIEW

Selected Podpieces

Poetry Sunday, WCAI

 

 

ABOVE WRIGHT'S FIELD, IN WINTER

 

Two red-tails fly together in the broken light
that strikes the white oaks gold this wind-scoured winter day.
It is the dive toward earth that drives their joyous flight.

 

As afternoon sinks swiftly toward the ragged night
and sharper, meaner winds begin to mock the way
the red-tails fly together in the broken light,

 

a raven rasps above the pallid field where Wright's
three cows trudge single-minded toward a yellow spill of hay.
It is the dive toward earth that drives their joyous flight.

 

They cruise in synchrony, then crack their wings back tight
and plummet toward the indifferent cows; but always
kite at last, to fly together in the broken light.

 

Above the western hogback, lofting clouds ignite
with shards of sun that drape the fading hills in gray.
It is the dive toward earth that drives joy into flight.

 

To plunge, then suddenly erupt, must be the height
of rapture when passion is the prey.
Two red-tails fly together in the broken light.
It is the dive toward earth that drives their joyous flight.

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WATCHING WILDLIFE

The other day I saw a video of a weatherman standing in front of a live camera, talking about, of all things, the weather. He was pointing out at the San Francisco Bay, and was about to launch into a weather update, when suddenly the upside down face of a giant, wild-eyed bird appearedat the top of the screen, peering out at us.  Read More 
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CHRISTMAS BIRD COUNT UNFAIR TO BIRDS

The other day Pippin and I got a late start on our morning walk. It was pretty darned cold, so we strode briskly down the hill through the bright sunshine. As we came to the end of the street, I heard a screech owl calling, what the Cornell Lab of Ornithology refers to as its Agitated Bark and Bill Clap. Read More 
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A WOODCOCK VISITOR

Yesterday I was standing there ironing when I glanced out the window and saw a mourning dove on the dirt path behind the oakleaf hydrangeas. It was awfully fat. And it was weaving back and forth, as if it had a stomach ache, or was saying to itself Oh dear oh dear, whatever shall I do?  Read More 
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ONE MORE TIME

Spring again
The yellow-shafted flicker starts drumming in my back yard at about 5:48 a.m. this time of year. Last year his instrument was the metal chimney stack on our roof, but this year he has discovered the birdhouse with a roof made from a Utah license plate.  Read More 
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