Flocking (Haibun)
I stand near my dad’s house, just a few days before Christmas. Hundreds of red-winged blackbirds crowd and stir in the pine matriarch that oversees our mountain. Tri-colored cawing ornaments adorning a December tree. I am mesmerized by the flashes of black and red that arc against ponderosa drab and brilliant white snow. The birds cackle and burble and croon, creating a riotous cloud of noise. As we are nowhere near water, this mob’s presence in this place, at this time of year, puzzles me.
Wind ruffles feathers
In patterns that resemble
A loosely thatched roof
“More ice cream?” he says, childlike eyes pleading from his gaunt and cancer-ravaged face. He is hopeful and sincere, and I am torn in pieces by his request. I am caring for my father, now in his last days. It is his choice, which I readily but sadly accept, to refuse all treatment, food, and water and thus end the long struggle on his own terms. After forty years of deteriorating mobility from spinal cord injury, and a host of unrelenting health issues, I get it. This deeply metastatic cancer represents, to him, the final assault. Enough.
Blackbirds croak wisdom
Primal guttural sounds scratch
Disconsolate skies
He is now delirious; remnants of the man I know are nearly gone. “Ice cream?” he repeats softly, beseechingly, his voice sticky and slurred by dehydration. Blinking away my tears, I gaze out the window and comment on the weather, distracting his fractured mind. My heart wails as I stroke his depleted hair, honoring his decision and battling my own selfish desire to delay the inevitable.
Window showcases
Avian maneuvering
Granite peaks call
His breath slows, raspy inhales and exhales more punctuated and increasingly further apart. I hold his hand, spellbound and struggling to process this moment–it is an anguishing free fall–and then he is gone. I feel him leave and I sense his joy.
Red-flecked horde launches
Wings caress infinite sky
Mourning. Exulting.
***
Nuthatch Token
On a gusty morning
Heavy with pondering
I bent to gather some debris
As I often do on my walks
Through the breathing piney woods
A blink of russet, caught
In the crunchy pre-spring grasses
A tiny nuthatch feather
Hardly bigger than my pinkie tip
Barely more than a thought
Of a feather
Catches my eye
Reddish brown and gray
Exquisitely insubstantial
I wonder that gravity
Managed to bring it down
Selfishly
I tuck it in my pocket
A little sorry to perhaps
Deprive a
Glossy black beetle
Of a stately cape
Or a preening chipmunk
Of a fine feathery fan
I feel that it is meant for me
I imagine that this avian calling card
Was thoughtfully plucked from
A generous red breast
Considering from its aerie
And placed just so as to capture
My eye And mind
An invitation
To soar on the senses
Drink in the momentary minutia
And tuck my heavy thoughts into
The fragrant vanilla bark
Of ponderosa pines
For future consideration
As nuthatches do
For a moment
I feel myself darting
Through lofty boughs
On light grey wings
The wind threshing my cares
From me like chaff
From grain
It is glorious
The ear flapping shake
Of an impatient canine head
Abruptly grounds me
Blinking, then smiling
I step forward into my day
I lost the feather, but it
Still floats on the breezes
Of my too often
Tempestuous thoughts
A reminder
To take things lightly
Jennifer Corbet lives in Golden, Colorado and dabbles in poetry when she has time.
loved these!