What I missed most
were the birds:
the toneless chatter of
house sparrows
flocking in unison;
the blue jay crying
from atop its perch
on behalf of
the neighborhood watch;
the flash and tsweet
of a cardinal's carrot-red beak
and mahogany wing
in the pine branches;
the balletic flight
of goldfinches
atop dusk-lit fields
of needling thistles;
the house wren's song
streaming
stut ter ing
like my mo ther's sew ing ma chine;
red-winged
blackbirds
roaming through
thick marsh reeds
for shelter.
Like a living anthology I'd left
behind as I crossed the Atlantic, the
bird songs of New Jersey became
my library abroad:
homespun verses
ringing in moments where
European silence reigned—
clarion call
for homecoming
echoing in the cold wind
as the crash of
North Sea waves
at Oostende
dragged me
miles
back toward
the opposite shore—
choruses trilled
in
flight
recorded
in
woods
and
fields
and
wetlands
away from
home—
wings whistling
like flicks of
nature's paintbrush
dancing
across
her miraculous canvas—
sweet hymns of consolation
sung
for one who sought the strains of
home.
Between Two Rivers 