Birds flying near body of water

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

twirled song,
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.