Our sky remains blue.
No scissored swallow cuts. No circling
tawny wings of prey searching,
waiting. Just blue.
And the uncut field so very still
as I shovel my boots through the mish mash
of summer blooming.
These woods but a vast mausoleum
of beech and oak and near perfect rows of pine.
Never even a gnat. Silent.
So I am left to listen to my body,
to the wild within, pulsing, electric, searching.
Every moment a miracle, stunning,
a cause for faith
in the vespers of the untamed,
the riot of wings and lush
fields gushing with insects,
the wild without.
Poem by Steve Crowley
I am an old San Francisco bar poet who finds the natural world calling for help.