“Firmament,” “Pioneers,” and “Saw-whet”

Contemplating the eye of a loved one,

you have noted the white of the sclera,

Its contrast with the pigment of the iris,

the cast pulling your focus. Encircling

The hue, faded to black, is a dark limbal ring,

a distinct demarcation like a horizon line at sunset.

This ring fades with age, a casualty of years that pass

uncounted as you ache for a love fixed in time.

–

Scanning a body of water after dusk,

you have noted the vigor of the sunset,

Its gradient glow a reinterpretation

of the roses beyond and the coral beneath.

As the sun pulls darkness down on itself like heavy bedclothes,

you may be tempted to go back to the book upon your pillow,

To someone else’s story, but keep watch over the tragedy

of the diminishing dusk, a heartbreaking goodnight to the spectacle of day.

–

Like a family member holding vigil at the bedside of the dying,

you must treasure this final intimacy with their warmth and breath,

Or you will miss the moment when they fade from their lived days

like the completed recession of the ring.

That scattered expanse of trees, looming behind the low-pitched roof

Of every neighboring child’s house, was only referred to as the wild woods.

–

Weaving between oaks, we spied the first three layers of logs

Stacked into the assembly of a cabin and then abandoned for us to annex.

The towering trees were spires shooting skyward from the weathered wood,

Bubblegum pink Reeboks crunching the remnants of someone else’s campfire.

–

We christened the small caves where we sheltered with names conjured

While gazing at the weathered rocky quarters like cloud formations.

Divining shapes and patterns from stuff solid enough to be

Seized by us as our afternoon respite from rain.

–

When clouds yielded to announce the setting sun, we held hands,

Emboldened by expedition, and leaped from a ridge into decades of leaf fall.

Rising triumphantly, we swaggered to the now revealed edge of the forest,

Where weeknight dinners awaited our return.

–

We were conquerors, imagining castles from timber, naming miracles of geography

And claiming them as dwellings, embracing the thrill of discovering passage.

It scans the fathomless darkness,

Discerning the field mouse at a hundred meters,

Manifesting like a shadow at the side of its quarry.

Comb-like feathers slice the air in silence,

Its velocity measured and mindful,

Striking prey without disturbing a single leaf.

Stationary and steadfast,

It sits like a monk at meditation,

Wings like robes, folding in repose.

A falconer once told me that in my backyard,

Urban though it is and an unlikely place for magic,

The saw-whet owls watch from low branches.

Pairs of eyes attending to my movements,

As I stumble through these pedestrian hours,

Clattering talons indiscernible from the rustling of leaves.