painting by gerhard richter.
“The characteristics in human nature which we love best,
grow in a soil with a strong mixture of troubles.”
--Harry Emerson Fosdick.
A robin has built
her nest in eaves of our deck;
expecting chirps soon.
She said smiling solemnly near sunset,
underscored by airliners speaking jet.
When you open
the back door, mother bird
would fly away.
“I wish she would realize that
we mean her no harm,” my wife said.
“Do you speak Robin?” I asked.
My tall lady held her iphone
over her head, snapping images
of first three lovely blue eggs,
then later three featherless babes.
Our tom cat & his neighborhood puss-pals
left their dusty paw prints on top
of the highest railing,
while crows & grackles
as mother & father brought
worms, grubs, beetles & seeds
to three gaping hungry mouths.
Odd, perhaps, that we felt so protective,
hoping calamity was not an elective,
watching three fat fuzzy heads bob
above the edge of the bird’s nest,
as we accepted the emotional job
of providing the babies the best
surveillance that we could muster,
fully understanding that actually we would
be nothing more than witness to the
events not yet upon us;
like the teutonic shelves shifting
with the inevitable continental drift
devil-deep beneath us,
like the new steam fissures sprouting
on Mt. Adams, that is
Mt. St. Helens’ little brother,
readying itself to become
another May magma event,
like the rare trio of ghost rider tornados
brewing within the thunderous womb
of the lightning-laced dark skies above,
like the mysterious change of course
for Asteroid H2000, an ice giant
with a granite core
that just now
is headed our way.
Nature has agenda.
We are but pawns ready for
sacrifices to come.
Posted over at dVerse Poets Poetics
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