Picture: English Partridge In Flight by Archibald Thorburn
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A hillock, high and serene,
Motta, they call it,
Towered with trees, solemn sentinels
In full ivy-chain armor;
Underneath ’em,
The hillock is a rampart
That stands without standing,
Overlooks without looking.
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Many a guardian on the wing
Of all shape and size
Fly, perplexed in the face
Of men burning the fruit
Of their labor, laboring
Mad, binge-distracting their
Beautiful minds, detonating
Their potential to pieces,
Only to find it intact the next time,
Again and again, as if
Unhappy about that intactness,
They scrape it away;
A coarse mineral?
To them,
Mere cobble and rhinestone,
Shielding a spatio-temporally
Hidden gem of sorts.
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Still,
The birds are on the watch, on tower-trees,
Shifting from branch to branch，
Calling the Called,
In direct line with the sun
Beaming codes of light
And warmth that soothes
The overall
Stiffness – shall we call it stillness?
Of winter.
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Always look at the birds,
For the birds do in grace
What we do in clamor and confusion:
Take off, and landing;
They settle and feed
Within necessity, silently;
Yet, when they do bicker and jest,
At times,
To us, well, to us
That is song.
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Herons