Wings
The Bible: from Psalm 55
Oh that I had wings like a dove!
For then I would fly away and be at rest.
Lo, then would I wander far off.
And remain in the wilderness.
Magpie’s Song
Gary Snyder
Six A.M.,
Sat down on excavation gravel
by juniper and desert S.P. tracks
interstate 80 not far off
between trucks
Coyotes—maybe three
howling and yapping from a rise.
Magpie on a bough
Tipped his head and said,
“Here in the mind, brother
Turquoise blue.
I wouldn’t fool you.
Smell the breeze
It came through all the trees
No need to fear
What’s ahead
Snow up on the hills west
Will be there every year
be at rest.
A feather on the ground—
The wind sound—
Here in the Mind, Brother,
Turquoise Blue”
The Heron
Will H. Ogilvie
Solitary, silent at the brown burn’s edge,
Bent above the ripple where the shy trout run,
He but sees the wan wave lapping on the sedge—
I can see the bit-bars flashing in the sun.
High and swift above him rush the startled teal,
Grey and close about him folds the mother-mist,
He but sees the round hill rising like a wheel—
I can see a horseman with hawk upon his wrist.
Brown below the heather runs the ripple on his feet,
Low among the shadows there are shadows slipping through,
He but sees the moor-trout mingling as they meet—
I can see the goshawk stooping from the blue.
Now he hears a footstep; wakes a sleeping power;
Wide-winged and wonderful sails away, and slow.—
I can see a tall knight ‘neath a lady’s bower,
Riding with a shorn plume at his saddle bow.
Dust of Snow
Robert Frost
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
a change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued
Be Like The Bird
Victor Hugo
Be like the bird, who
Halting in his flight
On limb too slight
Feels it give way beneath him,
Yet sings
Knowing he hath wings.
Olive Thorne Miller
Trills a wild and wondrous note,
The sweetest sound that ever stirred
A warbler’s throat.
Eben Pearson Dorr
The Jay he sings a scanty lay,
As boy who would a fiddle play,
Strikes one bar from tuneful harp,
Then screeches into discord sharp.
Though boys to task again can turn,
The bird, alas! may never learn.
Creator placed within his throat
A song that is a single note.
Yet sweet this mellow minor chord,
Prelude, perhaps it pleased the Lord
To song reserved for other shore,
Now vaguely hinted—nothing more.
Lucy Larcom
A bubble of music floats
The slope of the hillside over;
A little wandering sparrow’s notes;
And the bloom of yarrow and clover.
Do you hear me? Don’t you know
I’m the Red-eyed Vireo?
After lovely blossoming May
Entices me the livelong day—
Even when the August noon
Silences the bards of June—
My incessant voice is heard
Till I’m called The Preacher-Bird.
