Shine
At the foot
of the fat-trunked ash one starling lies, open-chested dead. Emerald edges of
the wing feathers catch the sun. In the branches above, the life of chatter
persists. One starling barely expects to be missed, and it need not be a gloomy
thought. A raw bravery it takes, for a person to be content with such;
starlings are born to the mass, unquestionably, expendably part of something. I
turn the still bird over, gently, into the grass where the ice twinkles:
commend it to the earth.
Ice under
sun throws uncountable gems: Dog and I crunch through a fortune.
I seek
distraction. Back at the cottage, a combination of mould and bad housekeeping
has made an unfortunate impression on my bookshelf in the little office room.
The shelf of comfort books: some held since infancy.
Up through
the brook, over the wide curved field. The ice is melted here, except in the
shadow of the old barn. Ice in shade has no light to refract. When the sun
moves to find them, each crystal here will shine into extinction.
What is
gone, is gone. Keep the lesson, not the textbook.
Comments
Keep the lesson, not the textbook actually rang deep and clear inside me. This was just such a beautifully-written post. Achey.