forest requiem
Rozome on Kimono Silk
Aspen branch hanger
25.5" x 22"
$450
This river, plunging from high peaks yielding up snow pack,
Roars so loudly I cannot hear birdsong.
Silent is the marten, even the squirrel she pursues.
Only thunder makes itself heard over this river.
But not falling rain; even the deluge is outdone by the river's overpowering voice.
Wait...somehow this shimmering morning,
a tiny hummingbird trills above the din.
Postscript |
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I left him to lie in state for an hour on the wood box, then carried him down to a glade which we call our quiet garden. I removed a smooth rock at the moss covered altar, gently scooped an earthen hollow for him, and replaced the rock. I will think of him now as I meditate, the green moss and the red woods columbines, his colors. Crystal, June 14, 2016 |
| About an hour after writing this, I found a male hummingbird down, still warm, eyes open, tongue extended from its closed beak. Perhaps he hit a window and broke his neck. I held him in the cup of my hand up where the others at the feeder could see him, but they ignored us. Only interested in the sugar syrup of life, not their dead compadre. He was exquisite: little black legs and talons of a size to grasp the tiniest twig; black throat bib which flashed red in the sun; iridescent green shoulders and wings made to hover and execute amazing aerial acrobatics. He had flown perhaps a thousand miles to return to the Colorado high country, only to die there. |