Did you hear the wind last night
howling up the creek
whistling in the snowy, twig shaped shadows
of January’s full moon?
Did you see the moon
last blustering night
brazenly brightening the deep sky
dark of clouds?
One time, when the gale quieted
and all sound was frozen silent
I slipped outside in time to see
a Screech Owl fly stage front shrieking
“Wild, wild everything is wild!
Everything is wild!”
The wind rose again as I huddled under a tree
It pushed me through a tunnel
into the reckless freedom of space and adventure,
shattering the stale sameness
that orbits everyday life.
It sang a new way into being and then,
returned me to my bed, freshened,
where the barking spirit of Coyote
stalked my sleep
and dreams dripped into an awakened life.
©Carole Fults photo and poem
A Short Encounter
I heard her before I saw her
body leaning as she attended
the lilt of a stream playing at her feet
amidst rhythmically clacking stones
a swing draped over one arm
deer signs nestled between her toes
proof of other visitors.
I caught her looking on
as I slowly stalked the center of the nearby labyrinth
but though she watched my slow progression
she did not halt her harmonies with the creek
or let loose of the wind
crooning in her boughs while some silly bird
yammered from his perch on her tallest limb,
some kind of avian rhythm I presume.
I heard and saw all of this as I rambled
along the labyrinth path
and when I reached the center of the puzzle
her spacious bones set loose a blustery breeze
and her old leaves rattled
as if applauding my achievement.
I bowed to her, my audience,
and as I withdrew
the creek, the wind, the bird and she
returned to their private world
where important things are known,
no one forgets to sing their part
and no one misses a beat.