Wednesday, April 03, 2013

No. 2 (NaPoWriMo 2013)

Chickadees, Starlings, and Jays
By Hannah Six

Outside the house
in which I do not live,
a sycamore is budding, branches festooned
with tight, furled leaves and
chickadees, starlings, and jays.
Fertile, rich-brown, the fields
are plowed and moist,
while, in the distance, a faint lime haze
gently slides winter's drab cloak
from the hills' broad shoulders.

Outside the house
in which I do not live,
an ocher-breasted warbler, small as my thumb, trills,
announcing his return and
the grand opening
of a brand new nest
in the same old spot--
where, yearly, the black snake
invades and eats the eggs--
under the eaves of the porch,
where I spent many a fine day spinning;
for company, a glass of tea
so cold it would leave
a dark, spreading circle
on the ground.

Soon, the cool morning mist,
summoned by, and succumbing to, sunrise,
will hover, protectively,
over the creek-carved valleys.

The afternoons will shimmer with heat and insect songs
and swirls of dust, the rumbling of thunder
mumbling to itself beyond the western ridge.

And a million fireflies,
like fairy-lights, strung among the apple trees,
will flash, in three-quarter time,
in the twilight, the blue hour,
outside the house
in which I do not live.