and now it’s Sunday

the apricots are blooming today, the forsythia is in full force and I forgot to mention the periwinkle flowers are also carpeting the lawn.

I’m not sure this poem is fully formed, but here you go anyway. . .

spiraling

The sky looks like someone was in a hurry
scattering the air
around the horizon, making wispy clouds
like shoots of electricity, pale sky ribs and visible sound waves.
The mountains form a bowl
around this reflection of
blue and brown in cat-tailed water.
The cranes are the main attraction,
but don’t skip over the terns and geese;
all the little birds I don’t recognize
that keep the air filled
under the hum of human voices.
The cranes are waiting for the signal
to pass among them to flight.
Similar and yet so different
to the telephone calls and website posts
that brought us here
with our binoculars and cameras.

And then,
they are up.
With calls in the back of their throats
spiraling
like specks of paper thrown to the wind
white on top
black underneath
rising with the heat waves
spiraling
spiraling
talking
gathering
individuals merely specks in the flock.
And still more joining
the primordial swirl.
And we sit to pass
the binoculars between us and
just take in the sight.
Witness.
My mom with tears in her eyes
as the birds fly to
the next big safe body of water
taking their instructions.
Melting into the sky
as they pass out from my vision’s limits.

And even before the last crane passes away
the crowd begins to disperse.
“Is it over?” someone asks.
Did you notice?
The show continues – though simpler now.
Black ducks with white bills float and dive for food.
The brush of the breezes stirs the reflections in the water.
The cows keep eating
and we drive back home,
just a bit more open.

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