Just making a place for the non-business side of garden writing. Please be considerate of the forum's post limits and do not start a new thread each time the muse strikes.
Ok... I'll bite. I guess if it's inappropriate, y'all will be quick to tell me.
Dusk to Dawn
(in my garden)
I watched the sunset in the west
spill golden waves from sky to land,
lick fiery orange tongues of flame.
How generous the Artist's hand!
I felt the shadows crowding in-
the palette change like shifting sand
to softly mingling shades of gray,
so quiet in the Artist's hand.
I saw the dark come creeping forth-
horizon etched in silver strand.
Reflections of a vibrant moon
suspended in the Artist's hand.
And then, a million tiny points
of light to help me understand
those vast expanses yet untold.
How intricate the Artist's hand.
I heard the waking song of life
arising to crescendo grand
with notes of daybreak bursting forth,
conducted by the Artist's hand.
I watched the sunrise in the east
shout golden streaks up from the land
to light the clouds with fuschia flame.
How glorious the Artist's hand!
Last night was one of those glorious evenings that we have had more than our fair share of this summer. The humidity was quite low for mid-July, there was just enough of a breeze and the sky was totally clear. I had my dinner on the porch and listened to the birds discuss the day.
First two redtail hawks traded cries back and forth. I don't know enough about hawks to decipher the conservation, but they sure were concerned about something. Then the sandhill cranes let us know they were on the pond. A blue heron announced his presence as well - how can such a beautiful bird have such an ugly squawk?
When a third sandhill joined the other two on the pond, it began to get noisy. Finally, the third crane decided to leave and that was when it happened - one of those moments when you just stop breathing and, to steal a Bruce Springsteen line, "you just stand back and let it all be."
The crane took off right towards the house. He manuevered between the trees where there didn't seem to be enough room for a bird of his size to fly through. Then he came out into the open and rose up to our eye level, flying past us just a few feet off the porch. You could hear the air passing through his wings with each stroke.
Too bad the word awesome lost so much meaning when it became slang, because this moment was truly awesome.
rokkis_mom, I really liked your poem. Keep up the good work. Veronicastrum, I had a similar experience with a great blue heron. I was stacking firewood near my house, a hundred yards or so from the farm pond last fall; down on one knee, a movement caught my eye off to the left, and I turned my head to see the largest great blue heron I had ever seen. It was a trememdous size, easily twice the size of most blue herons. I actually thought a small plane, like a glider, was attempting to land in the field. I couldn't believe it when I figured out what it was, and it landed out of sight, behind some bushes on the pond. Only then did I know it was a great blue heron, because I knew a plane couldn't land on the pond. I crept down to get a closer look, and when I was no more than 100 feet away, it rose from the water with those slow, methodical wingbeats, first flying away from me, then as it reached treetop height, it completely circled and came right back over my head, maybe 75 feet high, and just as this giant bird was right over my head, it let out one of those weird squawks you mentioned, like a Canada goose gone hoarse. The wingspan of a great blue heron can reach 7 feet, I've read, and believe me, this one had a wingspan of 12 to 14 feet, I would guess, and I've seen many blue herons in my life. I was also awestruck. Not only did I see it land and take off, it actually made a pass right over my head, as if to certify that it was the largest great blue heron in the world. Never, before or after, have I seen one that size. It was a surreal moment.
Could you eat a bird.
if you had to catch it first.
Nobody eats a bird with attitude,
ever tasted eagle.
So lets eat chicken.
I admire those big wild birds
I model myself on a kestrel and often wear those colours
so as not to be mistaken for a chicken.
People eat chicken.
I sure won't squawk about your feelings.
That's probably for the best. We wouldn't, after all, want to ruffle any feathers around here.
The limits of my poetical ability are doggerel and limericks.
I'm slightly envious.
I LOVE limericks! You have to be quite quick witted to come up with those, I think.