Loud cry from the sky
—no, wait, from the rooftop:
nifty house wren niche
The house wren, fiercely territorial, belongs to the family troglodytes which means “hole dweller”—this hole happens to be, fittingly, on a Dunkin’ Donuts building.
The Boy and I traveled long
stopping by the cemetery
in the waning October sunshine
to visit his grandparents
(hello, Daddy)
eventually locating
our unfamiliar hostelry
near the colonial village
the hour was late
but we were not yet tired
so we walked
the timeless deserted paths
anyway
in the dim silver glow
of the waxing moon
if we hadn’t,
we’d have missed
hearing the song
what kind of bird? I wondered aloud
until the telltale skitter
overhead in a halo
of lamplight
bats
singing to one another
in the dark
loud
wild
plaintive
notes
sustained
urgent
echoing
echoing
searing the night
and my shivering heart
even so
the evensong
sent The Boy and I
heading back
locating a different path
if we hadn’t
we’d have missed
the diamond-sparkling
darkling stream
under brick archways
a beautiful sight
a beautiful night
despite the chill
spirits so still
when The Boy and I
traveled long
*******
with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community
for the weekly Slice of Life sharing
and to the bats
for their moonlight melody
and to The Boy
a constant joy
with thanks to Chris Margocs for hosting October’s Spiritual Journey Thursday. Chris invites our group to write about those who have passed and left something behind in our hearts, in preparation for the upcoming holidays of All Hallows Eve, All Saints Day, and All Souls Day. She says: “As a person of Celtic heritage, the idea of the thinning of veil between here and the hereafter on these days intrigues me…”
—Me, too, Chris.
*******
The stirrings begin with the first breaths of cooler air.
As September gives way to October, while the trees and grass are still green, before any obvious turnings of yellow, orange, or fiery red, they appear.
I sense them most often at doorways. Portals.
There, on weatherworn sidewalks, a smattering of fragments from dead leaves surreptitiously dropped—I can never tell exactly from where—comes to life just as I approach. A soft rattling, a lifting, a sudden swirling… the upswept pieces begin dancing in a circle.
Fairies, I think.
And then I think, Children.
Small children delight in collecting such things, bits of leaves, tiny twigs, acorn caps, a butterfly’s bright-patterned wing, cicada shells. Nature’s cast-off scraps of life. In the hands of a child, they become treasures, magical objects, if only for a moment, in the mind of the child.
Watching the leaf-bits dancing in a circle, round and round and round again, I wonder if invisible children are at play. I almost want to linger long enough to hear them laughing…for there’s a stab of joy in it that I cannot explain, a piercing longing, a wild freedom…why should I perceive these things?
I wonder, then, about memories, so like the leaf fragments rising anew at the portals as I continue walking through the stations of my life, here to there, there to here…it is real, this revenant of my own childhood, the child that I was, holding onto the treasures that were given to me, reliving the precious bits that remain. As memories swirl round and round, I delight in them, in re-immersing for a moment in long-ago moments with people I loved, who loved me, who sheltered me, sustained me, prepared me…and who are gone but never far away. I see their faces before me, their eyes shining. I remember their stories. I hear their voices: I love you.
People die. Love does not.
Autumn comes with its fiery promises, its contrasts, its losses; trees will soon release their fragile organs in hopeful glory of surviving the winter. They shall sleep until spring, until the reawakening, life made new.
I walk on, remembering, wrapping gratitude round and round me like a hooded cloak, still sheltered, sustained, loved, awed by the beauty that deepens around me every passing year.
The stirrings begin with the first breath of cooler air.
Dancing revenants of what was, hinting at what is to be.
Perhaps they are whispering Allhallowtide.
Adaptability
is the key
to surviving
and savoring
your days
in the sun
Anolis carolinensis, green anole, Carolina anole: call it what you will, it is hanging out on the side of the house, basking in the October afternoon sun, feeling green…
…while its pal here, hanging out six inches away, momentarily eschews greenness for a more autumnal hue. Green anoles are sometimes called American chameleons.
They are also considered signs of good luck, prosperity, renewal, and healing, due to their ability to regenerate their tails.
The anole figures large in Celtic lore as a spiritual guide and a symbol of life, death, and rebirth.
You have to wonder, looking at their tiny, wise, ancient eyes…
*******
with thanks to E. Johnson for the photos
The question is asked:
What resource do you need most?
My answer is Time.
I cannot say, Child, what you might be experiencing within, but I can tell you I dreamed
that we were sailing along a river with green overhanging boughs
and that the waters before us were only troubled by a succession
of indentations made by tiny feet running rapidly across
—a little Jesus lizard, there in the recesses, trying to catch
or, on second thought, cavorting with, a dragonfly which shimmered and skimmered
away just as the swan drifted into view, its white feathers transforming as it neared,
changing from white to gold flushed with crimson
and then the eagle, gliding low over the glimmering water, huge, like life itself,
its curved yellow beak closed, its sharp eye affixed on us, not on the hunt,
merely acknowledging our presence
and so we drifted on and I didn’t even realize until the shore loomed
before us, rocky and steep, that we’d been riding in a little wooden boat
that navigated the river by its own power, not ours, to land us
right where we needed to be, and that we’d be able to navigate
this embankment, too, for there amid the stones and earth were steps
perfectly placed for our climb.
Cincinnati – Spring Grove Cemetery & Arboretum ‘An Unreal Moment, and a Gift.’” David Paul Ohmer CC BY 2.0.
*******
with thanks to the Two Writing Teachers community
for the place to share Slices of Life
even when they are but dreams
Faith of a child
pure and bright
trusting the shepherd
for guiding light
*******
in celebration of my granddaughter’s baptism
by my pastor-son
“Behold our God shall live with us, And be our steadfast Light,
And we shall e’er his people be, All glory be to Christ.”
—Dustin Kensrue
in honor of the tenth month: an etheree is a poem of ten lines, ascending or descending from one to ten syllables
Soon
the scent
of woodsmoke
will spike the soul
against a backdrop
of iron-gray spattered
with bright orange, yellow, red
but for now, October whispers
sweet green nothings as if we can’t sense
her chill unlacing cloak about to fall
Alphonse Mucha – PagP50 Automne/Autumn, c.1903. Public domain.
the hurricane roars
yet the hummingbird adores
a furtive rest stop
A lovely dove-colored female hummer feeding during Hurricane Ian
Dennis, our little cream-colored dachshund, cannot speak for himself but he knows things beyond my understanding. His acuity leaves me awed.
Consider how he began trembling one bright morning this week as my son prepared to take him to the vet for standard vaccinations. Dennis only trembles when he senses an approaching thunderstorm or when the lawn care crew is running mowers in our yard; he doesn’t like loud noises.
There was no such noise on this sparkling, early-autumn day as my boy took Dennis out to the car. Dennis loves to ride; his trembling was peculiar. The Boy texted me: I think Dennis knows he’s going to the vet.
Perhaps he did.
Perhaps he had a premonition.
Dogs don’t know words like unethical, breach, violation, and gross negligence.
But I have to wonder, now, if Dennis somehow sensed what was lying in wait for him.
He could not know the particulars, could he…
That the vet parking lot would be crowded and that The Boy would follow the “Check-In Behind Building” arrows to the back. The Boy knew that COVID regulations still preclude owners from accompanying pets inside. Vet techs would have to come and get his dog. And so it was. The Boy was handed a clipboard as Dennis was carried away into the facility.
As he completed the paperwork, another employee returned to collect it, mentioning the neutering clinic…The Boy said, We aren’t here for that. Dennis has an appointment for his rabies and distemper shots and to have his toenails clipped (dachshunds, even little ones weighing twelve pounds, have ponderous nails).
The Boy knew, of course, that the spay-neuter clinic shares the same building with the animal hospital that provides our veterinary services.
The vet tech said, No problem, we will just send him over to the other side…
A moment later, she called The Boy on his cell: I have to tell you that Dennis already been sedated…
For surgery.
For which an appointment was not made.
A surgery which was not needed: Dennis has been neutered. Two years ago. By this same facility.
The Boy, in utter horror, demanded the immediate return of his dog and all of his medical records.
And then he did what children often do in extreme distress: he called his mom.
By the time I arrived, The Boy was standing in the parking lot with a very woozy Dennis in his arms.
Short version: Dennis spent the remainder of the day at home in The Boy’s lap, sleeping off the drug. I returned to work, and on my arrival at home in the evening, Dennis greeted me at the door as always, albeit somewhat unsteadily. He crawled in my lap, trembling, until he succumbed to slumber, long and deep. The next day he was his normal perky, trusting self.
Longer version, still unfolding: Answers to questions.
How does a facility sedate an animal for surgery without verifying an appointment for that surgery?
How can a sedative be administered before permission is in hand?
How can no one have looked to see that the animal had (quite obviously) already been neutered, with the presence of a bright green tattoo right there on his groin, before sedating him?
How can there be such an egregious lack of standard treatment protocol?
In the human realm, would these violations not be malpractice? Are animals of a lesser god, deserving less humane treatment?
Most chilling of all: How far would the practitioners have gone before they realized their errors? When I began asking these questions, the manager told me the clinic has neutered animals without testicles.
How…I can’t even process that.
The nonchalance with which apologies were given spawns even more questions, including why the clinic nor the vet’s office has called to see if Dennis is okay. My son reported the entire incident to the agency which governs the joint practice and, to be fair, a representative of that entity did call to check on him the next day.
He is okay, thank God, but this story is far from over.
In the end, it’s a matter of ethics. Being entrusted with the care of another living creature is one of life’s highest honors. To love another creature and to see love reflected in sentient, soulful eyes, a divine gift.
Dennis is not able to speak for himself, but he knows.
Sleeping off the sedative, safe in The Boy’s lap
No words
lit bits and pieces 