Spring Equinox 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)
A crow sits atop a signpost, harbinger of the naked power grab occurring in the springtide court. His companion drinks from a muddy, roadside pool. On bolder days, he station-keeps in midair beyond the light pole, battling a strong south wind to a standstill. He tucks his wings, hovers and peels off back to perch before stepping into the wind again. Nearby, his mate calls her prophetically phrased monitions.
No one pays attention to her harshly worded warnings. The madding mob prefers the melodic cooing of mourning doves or onomatopoetic calls of the whippoorwills crying through the night, not recognizing the ominous note of either. Now is the time of the green plague. The last of the old, brown leaves have been discarded, pushed out by the green and new. An orgy of pollen sows confusion through the land. With each unrelenting gust of wind, golden storm clouds gather beneath every oak and pine.
A hawk glides low and silent through the front garden, a dead dove clutched in its talons. As her raptor-sisters patrol above, a woodpecker circles a tree as a shield then abandons her half-constructed nesting hole to return when the skies are clearer. Garden predators prowl unhindered in a triple-witching of instinct, occupation and feigned domestication. Quick, sharp claws lurk beneath their soft gray paws.
At night, two steady stars like uneven eyes, one heavy-lidded, peer back from the dark horizon. The old god and his messenger steal glimpses of their former demesne. The aged face of the winter solstice melts away as her younger sister begins to blossom. Soon, too, her shine will fade and we will flee back into the arms of her jealous, pale white twin. By then, the summer sacrifices will have been gathered, stirring restlessly within the wicker man, certain of their fate.
Behind a screen of purple Persian shields, azaleas bloom pink and white and red. Lavender lantana pop in tiny clusters that form a fuller flower, crawling down the stalks like tiny Roman legions whose whole is accentuated by the congregated discipline of its parts. The first brace of yellow alamanda trumpets the coronation of the radiant maiden-princess who has finally overthrown the cruel ice queen. By Lughnasa, they will blast martial in oppression as she, too, will be named a tyrant and usurper.
Camped in their winter bivouacs before the spring campaign, her green-jacked soldiers share cold coffee and dream of returning home to kiss their wives goodbye. Ignorant that they'll end their days blind and toothless, they still believe their cause is just and their vengeance justified. Until the scales of war tumble from their eyes, they dose in the warmth of the maiden's brilliant smile, blinded by visions of her fast maturing beauty, praying that her brightly colored revolution will never meet its end.
No one pays attention to her harshly worded warnings. The madding mob prefers the melodic cooing of mourning doves or onomatopoetic calls of the whippoorwills crying through the night, not recognizing the ominous note of either. Now is the time of the green plague. The last of the old, brown leaves have been discarded, pushed out by the green and new. An orgy of pollen sows confusion through the land. With each unrelenting gust of wind, golden storm clouds gather beneath every oak and pine.
A hawk glides low and silent through the front garden, a dead dove clutched in its talons. As her raptor-sisters patrol above, a woodpecker circles a tree as a shield then abandons her half-constructed nesting hole to return when the skies are clearer. Garden predators prowl unhindered in a triple-witching of instinct, occupation and feigned domestication. Quick, sharp claws lurk beneath their soft gray paws.
At night, two steady stars like uneven eyes, one heavy-lidded, peer back from the dark horizon. The old god and his messenger steal glimpses of their former demesne. The aged face of the winter solstice melts away as her younger sister begins to blossom. Soon, too, her shine will fade and we will flee back into the arms of her jealous, pale white twin. By then, the summer sacrifices will have been gathered, stirring restlessly within the wicker man, certain of their fate.
Behind a screen of purple Persian shields, azaleas bloom pink and white and red. Lavender lantana pop in tiny clusters that form a fuller flower, crawling down the stalks like tiny Roman legions whose whole is accentuated by the congregated discipline of its parts. The first brace of yellow alamanda trumpets the coronation of the radiant maiden-princess who has finally overthrown the cruel ice queen. By Lughnasa, they will blast martial in oppression as she, too, will be named a tyrant and usurper.
Camped in their winter bivouacs before the spring campaign, her green-jacked soldiers share cold coffee and dream of returning home to kiss their wives goodbye. Ignorant that they'll end their days blind and toothless, they still believe their cause is just and their vengeance justified. Until the scales of war tumble from their eyes, they dose in the warmth of the maiden's brilliant smile, blinded by visions of her fast maturing beauty, praying that her brightly colored revolution will never meet its end.
© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III
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ReplyDeleteNotes and asides:
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Not many notes this time. As usual, most lines were inspired by the front garden, as bleak as it is after a pair of colder than normal winters. I did see a crow playing in the wind one day, a woodpecker circling a tree trunk to avoid being seen by hawks, and a hawk swooping low across the front lawn with its kill. On our way home from tai chi last week, Karen pointed out Jupiter paired with Mercury in the western sky, staring like a pair of slightly crooked, watchful eyes. Amazing what you see when you take time to look.
Most days, I feel a lot like that crow, just playing in the wind because I can, calling it success if I can keep my wings mostly steady and my body in the air. At least for a few minutes. Except now I can hear the age creeping into my voice as I record these messages. Or maybe that's just the oak pollen drizzling from the trees.
For those of you keeping score since the beginning of the year, you've probably noted the rather languid pace of progress for all my stated intentions. The best laid plans. In January, a friend, the director of Runic Films, asked me to collaborate with him on a short film. It is still in the early stages of development. Be aware, this is a tricky business. We would need many other people to sign onboard before it becomes a reality. Ben is a patient and knowledgeable teacher regarding the world of film, which is an alien landscape to me. His questions and observations send me digging back through years of memories to extract esoteric bits of writing arcana. If nothing else, it has generated a couple stories and an ideas that will end up in something else if we don't find use for them here. I'll keep you posted as the project progresses.
Oh, and a final aside to by far my most valued and dedicated reader: Happy 17th Anniversary. Thank you for the opportunity to pursue this dream, for better or worse, even if it hasn't been what you'd call an economic success.
Picture notes:
ReplyDeleteThis is the red-bellied woodpecker near its nest hole in the ficus in the back yard that got hit so hard in last year's freeze. You can see the nest hole she'd been digging. She started working on it a few days before we heard her knocking as we were sitting out on the porch. She still hasn't finished, but we've heard her out there again. The neatest thing about the picture is that the woodpecker is looking up at the hawk circling above, hunting. Soon after, she started circling the branch to keep it between the hawk and her while poking her head around now and then to keep it in sight. Truly amazing to watch.