http://wps.prenhall.com/chet_brady_natureandp_13/229/58750.cw/index.html
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
In Memory of Jessie
Jessie left me for greener pastures in June 2009
My girls and I
Call me a watcher of birds--and of other things.
I and my young, ehuberant sidekick, Ben, spend a great deal of time on the desert--mostly watching and recording. This is our story, told as it unfolds.
I and my young, ehuberant sidekick, Ben, spend a great deal of time on the desert--mostly watching and recording. This is our story, told as it unfolds.
Jessie
Ben
Blog Archive
Song of the Desert Bard
In the frozen wastes of a western state
Starts an oft-repeated story
Of a singer who knows of life-long foes--
Every player, feathered or hoary.
And the tale begins when the southwest winds
Breathe a promise of days to come
When the snows are gone and the days are long
And the migrant stray flies home.
With a flash of wings the yellow bard sings
As a traveler flies the last leg
Of a journey from afar guided by a star
And the Great Horned settles on eggs.
In a land dispute an eagle stoops
On an interloping falcon
And a raven falls with a raucous call
To escape the gryphon’s talon.
In a bed of sticks three Raven chicks
In egg-shell blue are hidden
And the pronghorn buck tests his luck
Against a horse that’s never ridden.
The lark with horns anxiously scorns
A base of tufted grass
‘Till the watcher’s glance moves by chance
The eggs are warm at last.
Then the chorus swells ‘neath the vernal spell
The Thrasher’s trill incites
A battle cry from a black bow tied
Defending sparrow sprite.
Just hours apart, synchronous start,
On a frigid wind-swept stage
Transparent blue, they emerge on cue
The poet turns a page.
A wary hare without a prayer
Of moving undetected
Defies the gods and beats the odds
For a nip of morning nectar.
The time has come as the snow succumbs
For the hawk with feathered legs
To set a course for the frigid north
As the Bluebird’s youngsters beg.
Is that a feathered slug hanging snug
Deep within the brush?
Cat eyes peer ‘neath tufted ear
The Long-eared owl’s been flushed.
The queen of the air watches with care
A pure white ball of down
Soaring high with piercing eye
She patrols the distant ground.
Sage Grouse fellows pump yellow bellows
Vying for mating rights.
Creeping ‘round a rocky mound
Elusive Chukars take flight.
In one accord the cricket horde
Paves the dusty gravel
While the coyote pup, flushing a buck
Wisely opts to travel.
The weasel pops, the ground squirrel drops
Six crimson gapes a’ beggin’
For a bit of fare from a harried pair
Of joint-custody ravens.
The season turns as thunderheads churn
The heavens into butter
The Claret blossom turns deep plum
And the ground owl takes a lover.
Crop circles form ‘round a ravaging swarm
Of hymenopteran farmers
A formic feast for a horny beast
Deliberately scaled and armored.
A thorny spike to a hoarding shrike
Is a Big Sage Frigidaire
And the cicada’s drone of raspy tone
Marks a viper’s lair.
The summer moon, a helium balloon
Seems tethered by a feather-light rock
A scorpion tail fluorescent pale
Lies on the butcher block.
An audacious ball for one so small
The Red-tail youngster tracks
A wing-over cry from a blinding sky
The diving guardian feints.
Pulling with ease unbelievable G’s
While echoing the irate yammer
Of a tiny gape in a nesting scrape
The Falcon negotiates a hammer.
Across the chest a sapphire vest,
A band like an ebony braid
A gravid-red touch? Is it too much?
See the Great Basin Reptile Parade.
Spinning in his skin with a hissing grin
The badger turns the battle
Now wary feet beat a wise retreat
To the Storyteller's tattle.
A pugnacious beast discovers a feast
At the Desert Fried Chicken drive-in
Then lumbers away from his swing-shift buffet
While the owls mourn their offspring.
Lupine orbs form curling cords
A gift for a Painted Lady.
The Indian grass parts to pass
A gangling Curlew baby.
With tender care a foxy pair
Exchanges grooming favors
And the fledgling’s bold screeching scold
Is betrayed by a youthful quaver.
The days are long and the heady song
Of the storyteller croons
To a Black-tailed jack kicking back
To beat the heat of June.
The kestrel clings with quivering wing
To an exclusive parking space
Over lizard lox garnished with phlox
Waiting for his brunch to braise.
The season’s done as one by one
Grown-up wings take flight
The horizon fades through crimson shades
2 comments:
You're right! Cool dirt!
We don't get dirt like that out here. Or if we do, it is always covered by so many layers of leaves that you don't see it!
Post a Comment