Sitting in a cushion-comfy Adirondack
in the shade of two white oak trees and a beloved maple,
I peer into the thick green canopy overhead,
the gentle sway of leaves in the late-day breeze
mesmerizing in its own right.
Bisecting a slender stem of new growth,
a small, textbook-perfect acorn catches my eye.
I love the solitary position of this tiny specimen
tucked among the umbrella of spirally orchestrated leaves.
Are there more, I wonder?
I sit quietly, focusing on each quadrant of the crown.
Looking past the gestalt of this god of thunder,
I drill down to each branch, each twig, each leaf.
I am patient.
Then, I find it. Another acorn,
a branch or two higher,
just to the right of the first one.
Two of them. Might I detect a third?
I do. Then a fourth, and a fifth.
Clusters of acorns, too, become apparent.
My discerning eye begins to see.
The longer I sit here,
persistent and with intent,
the more I start to notice.
Birds also enter the range of this fresh, new vision.
They stop at the feeder, oblivious to my presence,
a nod to how motionless I’ve become in my revelry.
Sparrows striped in buff, black, brown.
Purple finches, red-winged blackbirds, a spectacular male cardinal.
At the base of the maple, a mourning dove returns my inquisitive stare.
I burrow deeper. I enjoy their song.
Chit Chat