The language of birds is very ancient, and like other ancient modes of speech, little is said, but much is intended.~Gilbert White
As the fog lifts, the rising sun creates
a rainbow in the lake and I’m too cold
to take the shot. It’s not that chill dictates
how I invest my time. The heron’s scold
and abrupt flight, his breakfast fish prospects
and my delight hold sway. So I’ll describe
and wish that words convey the fog’s aspects.
Mysterious light quells my diatribe.
Other realms appear. It’s clear I create
ways to bifurcate. Feeling chipper–awed,
I look up and two young deer peer, await
my gaze before bounding away. Applaud
the innocents today. A songbird trills
and takes my heart away. When I can still
and open to wild nature’s call, my path
is easy, slipping through the mainstream wrath.