Rivers flow
in volumes and refrains
the shadows of black phoebes
chasing waves
as they ripple
in quiet tones
a majestic scenery
tainted by involuntary lullabies
of atonement

The late afternoon sun shines amber rays upon a silent grasshopper.
A profound event is under way.

In the woodland's soft loam, mama grasshopper has planted her eggs, the ****** of a brief, worthwhile life.  Having evaded field mice, mantids, lizards, snakes, and birds, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED - almost.

In this little patch of sunlight, it is her time to "donate" to Mother Ecosystem.  It's an honor she shares with the butterflies, bees, squirrels, gnats, toads, termites, foxes, deer, hawks, robins, ants - and let us not leave out microbes and fungi.

Now sugar ants have discovered her and are dismantling, tugging, dragging her away in parts, reminiscent of an automobile salvage.  

Wayward workers stumble into ant lions' pits and become meals themselves.

The old, hollow white oak log, once mighty King of the Forest, is prostrate and bare.  Yet, with its last molecule, it continues giving.  Within its hollow, a disparate multitude is moving about, hiding, hunting, chewing, defecating, sleeping, reproducing and dying. 

In decomposition, the oak's material essence  melds back into the earth as nature's great Round River,*  an incomprehensibly slow, invisible tide.

It is late spring and waves of woodland sounds are pulsing through the community.  Cicadas shrill chorus fills the air. Distant flocks of song sparrows and warblers combine in a cloud of chirps. Above it all is the sharp tapping of a  woodpecker.

A charred fence post has become prime real estate:  a coveted,grand perch for phoebes and jays, and for a fence lizard, an elite high rise station for sunbathing and attracting a mate.  Mating azure damselflies dance in the air above the lizard.  They alight for a moment - snatched!  Above, a circling red-tail hawk eyes the lizard.

Across a draw stands an abandoned farm, tragic end result of disrespect for the land.  Goodbye sweet, precious loam, created over millennia.  You are being carried away with each rain.  Where, on where are you going?  
To brooks, rivers and the sea.

On a bleak ridge, a few oak tree survivors huddle together as they endure relentless grazing.  This parcel of land has nothing to offer anymore.  If you were to listen to the wind, you might hear its whispers of dispair.

But here, in this vibrant, buzzing woodland community where the land breathes life, there is home, food and an ideal place for all.

*  Words coined by Aldo Leopold, pioneer American ecologist, conservationist, and educator

403

The Winters are so short—
I’m hardly justified
In sending all the Birds away—
And moving into Pod—

Myself—for scarcely settled—
The Phoebes have begun—
And then—it’s time to strike my Tent—
And open House—again—

It’s mostly, interruptions—
My Summer—is despoiled—
Because there was a Winter—once—
And al the Cattle—starved—

And so there was a Deluge—
And swept the World away—
But Ararat’s a Legend—now—
And no one credits Noah—

Cuckoo bees and sprite Phoebes dance
the reflective rain pool surface
Dragonflies gander with glee , Bluejays
tilt their heads in question , fastidious Cardinals
wait their turn , harper Mockingbirds dry wet feathers in the nearing , overjoyed Sun , diligently painting Natures palate in every picturesque direction

your soul-
i can see it in slow motion.
the velvety paper wings, fragile.
the broken cocoon left behind.
fluttering- inaudible humming.
the scent of wing powder, the taste so sweet.
your purple soul. your aura sings,
her joni mitchell softness.
your pikes peak elevation, 14,115 feet close to heaven
yet so down to earth,
with your head in the clouds,
but not like an empty warlock.
the warlocks say all souls go nowhere,
but yours changes like the wind,
like the invisible treasure chest of eternity.
their jewels have no value here.
compared to the iridescence of your soul,
the sweet phoebes blatantly agreed, they’re priceless.
and someday when we travel the forests together
we will synchronize steps, heartbeats, and intertwine our beings.
with the arcane dirt beneath our feet
we become stained, yet tarnished not.
“dum spiro spero”, while i breathe, i hope,
the trees whisper, reflecting my desire, urging us together.
your butterfly soul will glimmer along the path.