A Belted Kingfisher is striking against January snow
and darts upstream, away from a surprise
undermining a sense of order. Migration flies on such strong wings of imagination
and pushes with the power of water and blood flowing
under ice and skin, it takes a moment
to see this bird rooted here, diving with me
and the old apple trees bending
into the swirls of self doubt
towards darkly hidden prey.
On one side of the bridge, cracked ice exposes
the continuous rush toward the Atlantic;
on the other side, openings of protected water
wait between the tall reeds and low brush.
Above, the clouds close their gray around hills
while this feeling of oppression
stabs at migrations. It suggests possibilities: to move somewhere else;
to go somewhere and come back again and again
and again, and once more; to rise up in a complicated world.
The wind pushes hard against the car
as I hesitate, leaning against a door that wants to close,
awkward, reluctant to drive on.
Metaphor and imagery can sometimes catch an idea with ease
or allow a deft escape as truths seem to elude
even the best sounding words.
I can visualize the blue gray bird waiting and watching
before making a dramatic dive
to come up with food or hunger;
or I can anticipate the blue gray trout moving gracefully upstream
suddenly stabbed, or squirming at just the right moment
to create a magical miss.
And while posing an old question—asking if I am the hunter
or the prey—and day dreaming about successful catches
and escapes—I know that this rough frozen surface
should have answers flowing underneath.
Already the darkness that comes early this time of the year
is settling in; the thermometer on the dashboard
drops as the light dims; and by stalling for another moment,
one more vision presents itself: a mouse bursts out of the plowed snow,
freezes in the middle of the road
and lets vulnerability overwhelm the moment and stares
at my shoes, looking, looking , looking
before darting into the deep snow on the other side.
No Broad-winged hawk, waiting cat-like out of sight, swoops purposely down
with the movement of my thoughts
catching what it wants.
It leaves me alone grabbing at something new
while looking for something left behind.
How does one explain a heavy darkness
now pushed partly away, shadows
that had settled over my writing, grading papers,
and the anxious lack of focus that had gripped me everywhere?
A distancing, even last summer, while biking across southern France
of castles, churches, olive trees, fields of glowing red poppies
were encountered but not pulled into the heart
with delight and animation. And moments, recently,
paralyzed, alone in my office at work,
overwhelmed with a drowsiness and sweaty sleep
that closed the door and magnified an inner void.
An emptiness I wanted to overcome
but could not break through, a shadowy armor
woven by a sly craftsman in the middle ages—a reluctant image
depicted on a huge red, gold, green and silvery tapestry
hung in the corner of another musuem—a dusty and lively narrative
with a knight wandering in the lower right corner
tugging a chain mail shirt on, uncomfortable
and hesitant in something that no longer fits,
his blue gray eyes gripped with a fear of battle
that had been easier to overlook before.
Fortunately, reality sometimes know how to call attention to itself.
The wind plunges aggressively against the car door
and purposefully blows loose papers across the front seat.
It is time to drive up the hill towards home.
Uncertainty needs to be overcome, at least for this moment,
becuause there is a flow here
that is stronger than boredom
and I am not bored.
I can hear the Kingfisher, but it has flown out of sight.
The blue gray fish is still swimming in part of my imagination.
Dark clouds, casting their spell, are not fiction
and move gracefully in the strong wind.
The moon, rushing to be seen before night totally closes in,
slips in and out of sight.
Roy Bryan 2/18/2010
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