Cold, stinging the hands and nose,
frost, delicately placed to disappear,
ice, slowly sealing in the spirits of water.
These are the tidings of a winter solstice.
Down to the reservoir to see…
on the shore, two young men,
speaking of scented oils,
speaking of a coming awakening.
As something watches me,
I creep behind a small fir,
listening, watching, breathing,
until they walk right by.
Out on the soft ripples my gaze,
dance between the trees and sky,
follow a flock north-east to the Mount,
wider yet, to let in still morning awe.
I imagine how the river used to be,
much lower it would have been.
I imagine the dam gone,
so that the salmon did spawn again.
Back up to the surface, to now,
there is a co-motion, the geese
in clans paddling for middle ground,
there is one, flying all around.
Diving ballet, defying the water,
with a white tail, this is no fowl play.
Truly, a bald eagle, a shepherd,
a trickster, a laughing dancer.
It dives among the factions of geese,
not one of either dare go aloft,
but rather scuttle on the surface,
honking this way, and honking that.
Again and again the eagle,
one flock up & around to the other
it taunts with no remorse.
Playfully, now ears hear it laughing.
moving the flocks in circles,
choreography undefined and definite.
it begins to bore of those
that don’t dare, take flight.
Eagle flies just over the water,
away, leaving the two flocks
to vie and paddle as they may.
Eagle fly with the wind, north-east to the Mount.