Sunday, 8 March 2015


The vixen is calling again in the night
Raspy anguished cries that hardly seem likely,
to my human presumptions,
to attract anything,
except my condolences.
And yet somewhere in the moon lit trees
her suitors are inevitably smiling
All around me things are shifting
creeks solid with ice and snow
suddenly crack and open,
wide and brown and vocal
People and animals and things, are taking wing and leaving
some, like gangly fledglings pushed from the nest
others gone but for the faint sound of distant beating wings.
Mostly, I can see the good
in sliced wrists and broken hearts,
returning to roots and spring cleaning lives
But there are moments when I'm bogged down
the fresh mud and thawing mounds of dogs' spent meals
mountains of expired food and piles of confused questions
collecting at my feet
The uncertainty of so many things I cannot control
a lesson in release and trust
These are the simple truths
The vixen will call, again and again
every spring
and the magpies will be busy at their nests all day
The same streams that meander in the heat of July will rage in March
and this too shall pass
Where there is change,
there is life.