Five Seven Five

With the energy and optimism of youth, a young man here in town organized a poetry night at our local library. It sounded like something different and fun to do on a cold February evening. I wouldn't call myself a big fan of poetry, but at times I find resonance in the work of some poets like Robert Frost, Donald Hall or Gary Snyder. There were six of us, and I thought that was a pretty good turnout for a place where everybody is always too busy. It was fun and stimulating. I met a few new people and got re-acquainted with some old friends.

I didn't want to go empty-handed, and since the closest thing to poetry I had to offer was a handful of haikus that I've put in this blog in the past, I went through my old posts and jotted them down. About all I know about haiku is that, in one form, there are three lines, the first and last lines have five syllables and the middle one has seven. That length is appropriate for my attention span, and I like to have some simple rule to follow.

These little poems brought back memories, both fond and bittersweet, so I decided to collect all of them in one place. Each one is accompanied by a little background about the moment they came to me. The dates refer to the blog posts where they first appeared.



May on the Deck
May 2007

I like to think about the cycle of seasons and how it affects the natural world around us. Every summer on May first, the chimney swifts return to Sharon to zoom and twitter overhead all summer long. On September first, they are gone. Also in May, the catbirds return to nest in the overgrown and unruly clump of forsythia in my backyard. I love to sit on the deck on a warm May afternoon watching formations of swifts flying their patrols over the house and listening to the catbirds mewing from the green depths of the shrubbery. It makes me feel like the world will be OK for at least one more season.


chimney swift catbird

sky above forsythia

good to have them home



Running to Another Place
June 2006

One of my regular runs takes me from home, through the town center, and over the tracks to the road up Moose Hill. On a good day, my body will feel efficient and my stride will be smooth. As the pumping blood washes over my brain I can get lost in dreams and, at times, I feel like there are secrets in the forest and that maybe a little bird - like the wood peewee - might be trying to share them with me.

Warm summer rain run.

Endorphins bathe open mind.

Pewee calls from woods.

Cold Blood
June 2007

Often times on these Moose Hill runs, roadkill is a reminder of life and death and the way we can crush the natural world beneath our feet and machines. One warm, damp late spring morning, following an overnight thunderstorm after a long dry spell I came across a big bullfrog that had me wishing we could all slow down and be more careful when we drive.

Rain lets bullfrog move

Warm road feels good to cold blood

Driver does not care.



How Quickly We Fall
June 2007


In 2007, I was trying my best to recover from prostate cancer surgery. (Everything is fine now, thanks.) My recovery was not going well, and in fact, I was feeling sicker and weaker all the time. What I didn't know at the time was that I was coming down with a nasty case of Lyme disease, totally unrelated to my surgery. I was confused, frustrated and depressed.

Having had almost no exercise for about seven weeks, I decided to hike to the summit of Moose Hill. While I was reaching for life, once again it didn’t take long to be reminded of death by roadkill as I turned onto Moose Hill Parkway.

Shagbark hickory.

Squirrel tempted by crushed nuts.

One last fatal bite.

Walker sees squirrel.

Maggots dine on rotting flesh.

No life is wasted.

This brought to mind the writings of Gary Snyder where he reminds us that all death nourishes new life.

As I climbed, I felt sicker and weaker. It was hot and dry and trees were dropping leaves prematurely. I was thinking of seasons - and lives - ending before their time.

When does youth turn old?

Like summer turning to fall,

We want to hold on.

How will we turn old? Will it strike overnight like a sudden hard freeze? Or will youth slip away gradually like summer slipping quietly, barely noticed, into fall?

Magic in the Air

I love May Day! (No, I am not now, nor have I ever been, a member of the communist party...) May first is the day the chimney swifts return. These 'cigars with wings' are my own Swallows of Capistrano: I could almost set the calendar by their Spring return.

Every year, starting a few days before the first of May, I start watching the sky over my house. Weather permitting, I'll first see my little friends on the first of the month. They were 5 days late this year, but I imagine the delay was caused by a rather unusual three-day rain event bucking the usual trend and coming in off the Atlantic from the East. It rained pretty much all day Tuesday and Wednesday, but Thursday was beautifully warm and clear. I knew it would be only a matter of hours. Sure enough, when I went out to get the paper this morning, I saw my first swift of the year streaking high overhead. A little later, with sun streaming through the bathroom skylight as I showered, I was thrilled to see a group of three shoot by.

Like tree swallows, these birds are fun to watch as they move through the air with apparent glee. I have a recurring flying dream, but even on my best nights, I can never soar with such confidence and ease. Where tree swallows look a bit like playful kids, swifts seem almost military as they zoom in tight formations high over my deck, chattering orders as they go. I sometimes imagine they are little jets flying combat air patrol over my roof.

I do wonder, though. There is a trend these days for people to install chimney caps to keep rain, squirrels, birds and other foreign matter out of the flue. I often think I should put one on our chimney. In the past I have seen swifts tumble from the air into chimneys on the houses on both sides of ours, and both these chimneys are now capped. Like the bluebirds who declined when wood fence posts became obsolete, could the swifts suffer from good house-keeping?

But for now, my swifts are back, and their regular- if not constant- chipping and chattering will be background music on the soundtrack of my summer. Then, just as suddenly as they arrive on May first, the door will close on September first. They disappear with a predictability and totality that is truly amazing, leaving behind only fond memories of warm days and blue skies.

Other friends also return at almost exactly the same time. Every year, catbirds nest in a huge clump of forsythia that dominates a good chunk of the yard near the deck, and I spotted the first one just a day before the arrival of the swifts. These are handsome birds with their trim gray coats and stylish black caps. They seem particularly intelligent and friendly, pausing in their nest-building to look at me and mew as I have my morning coffee on the deck. I can't help but wonder if these are the same individuals who were here last year and if those were offspring of previous generations, like salmon, returning to the exact spot of their birth.

I am a man of simple pleasures. While I take great joy from the companionship of common birds like my swifts and catbirds, the enjoyment I get from robins in the Spring is almost primordial. In all likelihood, the robin was the first bird I could identify as a small child. Their happy caroling in April as the earthworms begin to arise from the warming moist soil has always been a sign of re-birth. They have always signaled swelling tree buds and children laughing outside after a long winter.

A pair of robins have been bobbing around the back lawn for a week or two now. I assumed they were nesting in the area, and that made me happy because it's been a few years since we've had a nest. Like the catbirds, these robins make we wonder if this DNA has been here before. Like our last resident robins, this pair has built their nest on top of one of my bird houses. One of the first things I did when we moved here nearly 20 years ago was put up nesting boxes. We live in a classic established suburban neighborhood, and I hoped I could enjoy the company of house wrens. While I sometimes hear house wrens, and often hear the over-sized songs of Carolina wrens, I've never had anything but false nests in my boxes. At least the robins are willing to accept my hospitality, and I'm delighted to have them. Maybe I should put up nesting shelves instead.

So, even with all the troubles in our world today, life struggles on. I find it truly miraculous that these small creatures can navigate hundreds and even thousands of miles every year to return to my small back yard. Even though I hope to spend an hour or two up on Moose Hill this weekend searching for more exotic birds, it's my everyday friends that really tell me that Spring is really here.