waxwing blessings.

a waxwing reaching for an ash berry, belgravia, edmonton, jan. 23/09

berry obtained by same bird, same place, same day.

New camera. Waxwings. That is really all. I love these birds. That is all. & no matter what I try to write about them, I cannot do justice to these creatures, & what it's like to stand with someone & watch two flocks of them, a skyful of thousands, merging like the unconscious arms of a spiral galaxy, their telepathic wingbeats. & their joy, of feeding & fluttering, voices like clear keening water. It stirs me so deeply, the blessing of witnessing this, that nothing I write seems to fit the scale of this, just like I can't fit their whole migration in a camera lens.

I know they will make their way into poems, sneak in to feed, leave a rain of metaphors like red berry-hail on the pavement. But I can't write about just the waxwings themselves. They just are.

Jason sent me this poem, A Rescue, by John Updike. I am fond:

Today I wrote some words that will see print.

Maybe they will last "forever," in that

someone will read them, their ink making

a light scratch on his mind, or hers.

I think back with greater satisfaction

upon a yellow bird--a goldfinch?--

that had flown into the garden shed

and could not get out,

battering its wings on the deceptive light

of the dusty, warped-shut window.

Without much reflection, for once, I stepped

to where its panicked heart

was making commotion, the flared wings drumming,

and with clumsy soft hands

pinned it against a pane,

held loosely cupped

this agitated essence of the air,

and through the open door released it,

like a self-flung ball,

to all that lovely perishing outdoors.