One day on
a recent run I came upon a small, perfectly formed bird’s nest. Like the leaves
I catch when the situation presents, I carried my nest treasure carefully in my
hand during the balance of my run. I later sprayed it with a light coat of
varnish in order to keep its intricate shape and beauty. I collect barkskins,
nests, etc., for what is becoming a visual arts project I call “Dawn Times.”
That has altered
my running pathways some. On a second strangely mild day (Dec. 5) I was drawn to the sound
of a blue jay, who was making an incredible racket on a Prospect Park hillside.
I followed my “noise,” and came to the base of a thirty-foot tree, freshly bare
of leaves. Near the top in a crux of thin branches was what must have been the
cause of the commotion, and the impetus for this poem:
December, Be Damned
The sound of the blue jay
spring-rasp
in December
from above and
below the way
she defies
pinpointing
throws me,
looking up
to
yet another small but perfectly
formed nest in
a barren tree
jog jog jog
toward it and
she SHOUTS
so yeah
stay the fuck away
December, be damned.
Next: Running for Your Life: Renaissance Reverbs
