Heron at dawn. Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield.
What the Heron Brings
Heron stands in dim-lit dusk, hermit of the shadowed shoals her silent, stilt-legged silhouette heralds nothing, no more than
threads of time, unspooling strands– thousands, like the sun’s rays, or thoughts, tacit and tattered, thrilling and threatening, feathered things–
catch them if you can, they’re carp cast in mind’s golden pond, capricious and captivating, calmed by wind-sigh, wing-rustle.
It’s hopeless. I can’t stop writing about birds. 🤣 And the rain is gone, so I got to see “my” heron this morning. This is for dVerse, where Grace’s prompt invites us to write a poem in traditional Mongolian meter. You can read more here.
Ask if the moon sleeps as the sky turns rosy, and with languid tongue, licks black to blue– does she recall the after-ache of crashing birth, and dream the songs of a thousand stars?
Now, watch the cool cat breath rise with arched back over the river, curling into the morning air—
is this what you seek? Recall the beauty of this day— clothed in peach, pink, and blue– the chirp of sparrows, the rush of heron’s wing.
When I opened our back door this morning, there was the moon right in front of me. Then when I walked to the river, it was just so beautiful with the sun rising over the water. The world is full of terrible things and horrible people, but there is also such beauty in it. The Oracle knows and reminds me.
Great Blue Heron, Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield
Tsunami waves of misunderstanding surge from sea and overland, destruction in their flow, flotsam when they go.
But beneath blue sky, the heron stands in pensive pose— His thoughts? Who knows? Warm-blooded, hollow-boned, his lungs an ancient dinosaurs’ shifted gift, far-flung-DNA stays. Life everlasting.
It’s quadrille Monday at dVerse. Lisa has asked us to use the word stand.
Far away, storms eat winds and send them swirling– but here, now, the sky is gowned in midnight blue and a peach moon shines over sleeping gardens. The fiddler plays a soft lullaby recalling dreams of aching beauty– and if I don’t understand them all, I recognize the song of whisperings seas, and the beat of heron wings, the language of seasons, of hope and despair, and I smile at the dawning light.
The Magnetic Poetry Oracle gave me a poem today that I think goes with Ingrid Wilson’s publication, The Anthropocene Hymnal. It’s available now. Read her post here for information. All money earned from it goes to the World Wildlife Fund. I have one poem in the volume, and the beautiful cover is by Kerfe Roig.
The July full moon is called the Buck Moon, but I think it should be a peach moon. I was hoping to see it early this morning, but it was already too low in the sky. I did see Jupiter though–and I saw this heron today and wondered if it was “my” heron from last summer.
In shadowed mood, I river-walk see heron in the gloaming-light, and deer that shyly peer, then sprint in white-flashed flight to rock-strewn beach.
Is this happiness, or calm release of anger stored, of finding peace in the susurrous wind sighs– a promise, hope’s rise.
Lillian has asked us to use the word happy–or some form of it–in a quadrille for dVerse. It usually makes me feel better when I take a walk, and especially if I see “my” heron or some deer.
Ineffable, the word lingers from my dream almost visible–
how to describe the dream state, a word floats in the air—
almost visible, liminal, the world of in-between.
Ineffable, the world today, inconceivable
that we let it happen— the naked emperor rules, the fools see what they want to see
despite fire, plague the flaming hate and the ceaseless lies
rekindling the blood libel, as the full moon hums fiercely in warning, in horror
we look on, but also, ineffable
the beauty of lunar shimmer and morning glow
of herons and deer and the serenity of the river flowing on
carrying ghosts and memories, in its currents time bends, reflecting and refracting
the past merges with the future, till it, too, is ineffable.
I did wake up today with the work ineffable floating in my head. We didn’t go anywhere this week, but historian Heather Cox Richardson’s Letters from an American email today reminded me of all the events that have happened within the past week—”It was only last Sunday– seven days ago– that the New York Times released information about Trump’s taxes. Since then, we’ve lived through Tuesday’s debate and the wildfire spread of coronavirus through the inner circle of the White House, along with other stories that would have crippled any other administration but that now pass by with hardly a ripple.” My morning walks and talking to loved ones is keeping me sane.
We ordered Chinese food this weekend and watched two Merril movies: I’m Thinking of Ending Things (on Netflix) and A White White Day, an Icelandic movie available to rent on Amazon Prime and other platforms. I liked both of them more than my husband did, but they are both movies I’m still thinking about. The actor who plays the main character in A White White Day is so compelling, and his granddaughter is very cute. I’m Thinking of Ending Things, is a Charlie Kaufman film, so if you’ve seen his other movies, you know this will not be straightforward. There’s also a connection to Fargo, the TV show, not the movie. Jessie Buckley who plays the young woman in the movie, is in the new season, and her co-star, Jesse Plemons, was in an earlier season, as was David Thewlis, who plays his father. We’ve watched the first two episodes of the new season of Fargo, which is set in 1960 Kansas City, and we both like it so far.
I’m hosting dVerse today, so I’ll be back later. 😏
Today is Yom Kippur, so I’m not going to do a usual MMM post. I don’t want to discuss politics, or even my past week. With so much awfulness in the world–and more likely to come–I felt an especial need for beauty this morning. I was fortunate. As soon as I walked into the park, I saw these two young deer. Then I saw the heron, and the beauty of the sky took my breath away. Magic moments. Wishing some beauty, love, kindness–and magic, too, to all of you in the coming year.
Yesterday and today: Merril's historical musings 
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