An early walk by the lake
high in the Blue Ridge, near Grandmother.
The veery, over and over,
spirals her mystical song down over us, a double helix.
The wood thrush, uppity-up, downy-down,
and the way its song breaks up at the end,
a lesson in impermanence.
The whip-poor-will too, as round and beautiful a tone,
a magic flute.
Across the lake in the early morning,
a cormorant flies low and straight
then stops to hang her big wings out to dry.
Slowly, slowly steps the doe,
carelessly chewing on elder flowers,
as though all of this were the everyday gift,
just the way things are.
June 22, 2012