Thursday, November 01, 2012

A poem from my morning walk, as always, best read aloud

being alive
Scott Gardner Merrick

Hundreds of cackling grackles
emerge from one horizon,
wings beating and gliding,
sets of six beats, then one long glide,
flapping six times again,
then gliding,
each of them, flocking
across the crisp October sky,
This pattern of motion conspires
with this number of birds
to create overhead an
impressive illusion of order
in a fleeting, private event
of sight and sound.
I am astounded.
Soon they dance away between me
and the full bright silver moon,
his ancient blue-lined face
askance always--
I can almost hear the “Meh...”
A sunrise pink-tinged Learjet
eases across the crisp
cerulean sky after them
sounding one big steady wind,
its engines’ blowings fading,
followed by a light plane’s props,
chainsawing away,
steadfast and unseen.
Unseen also, at long last,
in the far distance behind
my green and golden ridges,
the Louisville and Nashville
morning train, itself
a song intensely complex,
sweetly deep and rich.
And ah, there’s the whistle blast.
One russet leaf spirals lazily
from its tree, down
across the road
and down
and down,
What is not to like
about being alive?

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