On the Eve of…
Photography is by definition mute.
C. D. Wright
Talking Pictures
It almost slipped by
without my inquiry: today,
being of sound mind
& almost sound memory,
(forget the body) I watched
myself write September
21st and said isn’t it
the equinox soon? The
autumnal equinox? (saying
that word out loud:
autumnal
in one press of breath
has some awed finality
to it, but the kind
of finality that hasn’t
arrived yet, know
what I mean? Breathe
it and you’ll see) Because
the vernal equinox,
back against the pelvis
of March, was and often
falls in on the 20th.
And solstice summer:
the 20th. So it would,
like water that seeks
its own level, be that winter
will balance the wind
of its own beginning
(and by beginning I mean
on paper, calendars, those
neat grids and numerals
and phases of moons
Jewish holidays and holy
days of obligation if
you’re marked by such
remembrances.) It happens
it’s a full moon
just now. Earlier,
around 3 a.m.,
there was a rainbow
ring around the face
of her, and I’d wanted
to get a photo—
but I stopped
at the glass and just
watched the light
cast back in the metal
birdbath. Lately,
which means through
the spring and summer,
a young and hungry
black bear has been
ravaging our birdfeeders.
And we keep forgetting
to take them to
the shed. Still, I count
myself fortunate
that I was able to
watch the bear late
last spring sit
on his haunch
and as contentedly
as any sentient,
as easy as springs
and lubricated gears,
open and close
the little windows
meant for songbirds:
chickadees, nuthatches,
finches…
I don’t know where
the bear has got to
through the last
two seasons. He’s
maybe watching me
through the leaves
deepening need
to release their green.
There’s in no way
discrete, piles of seeded
scat, studded
with all that’s passed
through the unholy
or holy depending on
your bent, ropy colon.
I’ve got this full moon
telling me it’s going
to rain soon – at least
somewhere up in the air –
verga maybe, water
that will never fall
all the way, or the cool
beginnings of winter. Shhhh.
I know. I know.
There’s one day left
of summer. Picture it:
I thought it was lost
forever and had gone
on (to where is yours,
or anyone’s guess or
conjecture) but it turns
out I’ve got one last day.
And a rainbow around
the full harvest moon – what
are they named?
moon bows? Moon
rings? There’s science
to it – ice
crystals and prisms
and thin cirrus clouds,
the conditions
pristine and well timed
and not at all
random or happened
on by chance. I wanted
the photo. I really did.
But I wanted more
to know I’d be alone
long enough and outside
the reach of the free
moving bear who is
the real reason I stay
inside, he who blesses
me with his squat
knee and posture
and keeps his claws
inside the tiny seed-
houses of birds and licks
his paws contentedly,
lick, lick, lick, his tongue
a blue cloud over
his black moon maw,
falling in then coming up
falling in, and falling
in and coming up
until it’s all quite empty
or he’s had his fill,
whichever comes first
on this day the last day
of summer for anyone
who’s watching such
moons that are full
and waning and taking
their ease between
trees and least cirrus’s
now far-drifted east
and eased free
as the breeze,
as any breeze,
decrees.
