Only An Eagle And I For A Moment

By Silver Grey Fox

This morning driving along a section of pines

the roadside vista reminds me of my glimpse

of the piney woods sections outside Houston

in Texas with the mixture of pines and shrubs

and the temperate nature of the forested area.

Then, rather suddenly I notice a bald eagle,

its white head distinct above its black raven-

colored body, sitting atop a solitary pine.

And, for a moment I pause on a turn-off

to observe its falcon-like instinctive pattern

of behavior when searching for and seeking

prey. Only for a moment, so it seems, am I

privy to its activity as it circles, then swoops

down earthward to snatch what I can’t quite

see until it climbs back above nearby brush.

Then, there, visible in its talons, is one of the

larger snakes I have seen in this section of

South Florida. Oh, sometimes I wish for the

spontaneous nature of such feathered creatures–

for the eyesight, for the instinct, for the ability

to move so gracefully at times and then also

having the speed to so naturally snatch its prey.

Ah, with the eagle nestled back somewhere

now in this piney woods to enjoy its catch,

I continue my drive back into my morning’s

activities—banking, shopping, laundering…

a far cry from my moment’s enjoyment with

the eagle sighting. Such is our connection,

my bird and I, such is our likeable difference.

_________________________

About Silver Grey Fox:

As a writer-poet, I continue trying to gain an understanding of the enigma that is mine and that which was the late Theodore Roethke’s own. He once said, “What I love is near at hand.” Thus, there is so much yet left to be explored; plus, as he noted, “Being, not doing, is my first joy.” What with nature’s beauty all around, and my continuing to reach out and touch, feel and appreciate such, along with having opted to re-open myself to love and life, I continue seeking to more fully define my identity, so I write and write some more.

_________________________

Links Of Interest:

On Theodore Roethke — Theodore Roethke (1908-1963) — Poetry Foundation

On Gary Snyder — Gary Snyder (b. 1930) — Poetry Foundation

On Amiri Baraka/LeRoi Jones — Amiri Baraka/LeRoi Jones Bio

On Black Holes — Black Holes — NASA Science Astrophysics

-posted on red Ravine, Thursday, February 28th, 2013

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Pileated Woodpecker (Heartbeat Of The Earth)

Pileated Woodpecker, Minneapolis,
Minnesota, February 2009, all photos ©
2009 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

woodpecker drumming
beetles hidden under bark;
dig deeper for truth

 

I was surprised to hear drumming in the woods behind our house last Friday afternoon. After standing in silence for a time, I spotted three pileated woodpeckers in the oaks, males checking out new territory. Though the downy and hairy woodpeckers are often seen at our feeder, I had never seen a pileated that close to our home. The last was at the Eloise Butler Wildflower Garden and Bird Sanctuary a few years ago.

There are about 180 species of woodpeckers in the world, each spending nearly their entire lives in trees. They are climbers and prop their stiff pointed tail feathers against a support while shifting leg holds. With body close to the trunk or branch and head bobbing, the bird is nimble and fast, darting sideways at such incredible speeds that predators have difficulty catching them.

It is my belief that animals and birds show up along our path to help us find our way. There are many cultures that honor the otherworldly role of animals in our lives. There are birth totems and spiritual totems, and those who appear once in a blue moon to remind us of what might be important in that moment. Birds link the Spiritual and the Earthly, the Upper and Lower worlds.

Woodpeckers with their erratic flight patterns and rhythmic drumming are one of the heartbeats of the Earth. I saw the three pileated woodpeckers as a sign in changing times — everything will be alright. According to one site about woodpeckers as spiritual guides, here are some of the characteristics and wisdom of Woodpecker:

• woodpecker flight patterns are unique; honor personal rhythmic patterns, stay grounded to obtain goals
• be open to self discovery; by pecking into bark and dead wood, hidden layers of the psyche are revealed
• woodpeckers are active birds; caution is advised to maintain balance when reviewing any situation or issue. Don’t be too focused on the mental; too much analyzing can result in procrastination.
• woodpecker finds food hidden under layers of bark and wood teaching us to dig deeply to find truth and deceptions. Woodpecker energy is associated with prophecy and the ability to see deeper than surface lies.
• even if something seems difficult to do, do not give up. Do what works, even if it is unconventional. Set your own pace, your own rhythm.
• people born under the woodpecker sign need safety and security and are often wary because of their extreme sensitivity to their surroundings; learn to move through life with perseverance and inner strength
• woodpecker folks are able to “ride the flow of life” and to receive in silence. They are gentle, sensitive and dreamy folks who tend to both absorb and reflect things around them. They are here to learn more independence and stability.

Pileated Woodpecker, Earth Drummer, Minneapolis, Minnesota, February 2009, all photos © 2009 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.

pileated (from the Online Etymology Dictionary)
1728, from L. pileatus “capped,” from pileus “felt cap without a brim,” from Gk. pilos. Applied in natural history to certain birds and sea urchins.

To learn more facts about woodpeckers, visit these sites:

• Pileated Woodpecker Central
• Cornell Lab of Ornithology — All About Birds
• National Geographic — Pileated Woodpecker
• Seattle Audubon Society Bird Web — Birds of Washington State
• The Search for the Ivory-Billed Woodpecker — Cornell Lab of Ornithology

 
-posted on red Ravine, Sunday, March 1st, 2009

-related to post: haiku 2 (one-a-day), PRACTICE – Roadside Attractions — 15min, What Is Your Totem Animal?

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I Think I Figured Out What My Totem Animal Is

Hitchhiking Bird series, friendly bird at a Valles Caldera scenic overlook, August 3, 2008, all photos © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.




-Related to post What Is Your Totem Animal?

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The Hummingbird Messenger

 
A Message for Jim, pen and ink, November 2007, doodle © 2007 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.



The first time it landed on Jim, he said he thought it was his brother David.

David was 15 months younger than Jim. His little buddy, his pal. David died of leukemia when Jim was seven.

No one talked about David’s death then, and Jim doesn’t talk much about it now. But if you meet Jim, you’ll notice a sadness in him. Like when he laughs, he never really gives it all up to laughing.

Yet he gives it up to the hummingbirds.

The first time is 1997. He sits on the front porch while Dee and a friend splash in the wading pool. A hummingbird zips in and around the feeders above Jim’s head, lands on a low branch in the giant catalpa. Jim stands, walks to the tree, reaches his arm toward the bird.

“It flew to my finger, just like that!” He is going on about it over the phone. “Dee held out her finger, too, and the hummingbird hopped from me to her.” He is almost out of breath. This is the most exciting thing that’s happened since Dee said her first words.

I didn’t believe him. Dee told me all about it when I got home from work, but still, I couldn’t see it really happening. If you’ve ever seen a hummingbird stop beating its wings and land in a tree, you’ll know what I mean. You want to shake your head. The idea of those tiny wings not flitting their 80 beats a second — there’s something unnatural about it.

Earilier that same year, Jim found a hummingbird, lifeless, on the floor of his workshop. He figured it got overheated in the skylight trying to get out. He picked up the bird, ran to the house and yelled for me to bring sugar water, quick, in a bowl. He held the tiny limp body cupped in his hands while I held the bowl. He dipped the bird’s beak into the water. “Drink, little bird,” he said in a little bird voice.

After a few dips in the sugar water, the bird’s beak opened then closed, opened then closed. Jim opened his hand. The bird sat, looked around, launched. Whirrrrrrr, into the sky.

“I’m pretty sure it was the same bird,” Jim is telling me the day by the wading pool. “I see,” I say, although I don’t really.

One Saturday the next summer, the hummingbirds fly around our yard like neutron dive bombers. Jim is watering the Spanish Broom; I’m weeding around the Butterfly Bush. A green hummingbird lands on a prickly pear cactus flowering brilliant pink-purple. Jim drops the hose, walks to the cactus, extends his arm. Plop, the hummingbird hops from the plant to Jim. He turns to me, smiles.

My mouth is open.

There are three more hummingbird messengers. Once a hummingbird comes to Jim after landing on the young cottonwood we’ve planted. Another time the hummingbirds hover around a feeder in the lotus before one lands on Jim. The last time is this spring, ten years after the first instance. We are preparing to move.

Jim has his head in the engine of the ’57 Chevy Apache; he is trying to start the thing, which has been dead for a year, so he can drive it to the new place. A hummingbird lands on the hook where the hood latches. Jim looks up, puts out his finger. The hummingbird hops onto him. 

By now this has become almost ordinary, yet I still look on as if I’m witnessing a miracle. Even more extraordinary, Jim moves his hand toward me, I put out my finger and the bird hops onto me. It is tiny, so tiny I can barely feel its weight. I feel its tremble, or maybe that’s mine. Jim says the bird has come to say good-bye.


        


One day last May shortly after we moved, Jim called me on my cell, excited.

“They’re talking about hummingbirds on Native America Calling,” he said. “Should I call?”

Native America Calling is a radio talk show where listeners call in to talk about issues and themes pertinent to American Indians. That day the theme was the importance of the hummingbird to Native cultures.

“Call,” I urged. I had just pulled into work, had a meeting in 20 minutes.

I stayed in my car, tuned in to the public radio station. The host had a panel that day — a well-known artist and a tribal elder. I listened to one caller, then another. I listened as long as I could; Jim didn’t come on.

Later that day, my phone rang. Jim. He told me they eventually put him on the radio. He told them about the many instances where a hummingbird, or several hummingbirds, landed on him. The host asked if he was Native. “No,” Jim told him, “but I was hoping you could help me understand, what is the meaning of these visits?”

The host asked the panelists what they thought. Both said it seemed extraordinary, nothing either one had ever seen. Jim waited. The host told him something silly, like, “They must think you’re sweet.”

“They didn’t believe me,” Jim said to me on the phone, dejected.

“I know,” I told him, “it’s hard to believe if you don’t see it for yourself.”

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