a no show

I happen to look up.

One silent hawk circles

Broad and easy overhead.

He joins 3 or 4 more.

They circle off into the distance.

I look down again.

I hear the call of something,

A trill. 

A “ha ha ha ha.”

The tall, slender trees 

talk to each other, creaking.

The water ripples, coldly,

un-rushed but not slow.

Things move on.

The wind in my hair,

Birds in the distance,

Calling, seeking,

Lessening, deepening.

A felled tree, like a bridge,

Reaches half way across the river.

It is green on the other side, always.

But it is green on my side, too.

I hear the rush of something,

Like a highway, far away.

A muffled “vrrrrr, vrrrrr.”

I think of standing in the quiet, 

sacred center of Central Park 

And still hearing traffic. 

The roar in the distance 

Proves to be the wind 

Sightlessly moves through trees.

A storm is not coming, 

but I think of how the air feels 

When one is on its way.

The invisible roar reaches us—

Me and the birds and this creaking tree—

And a quiet, full feeling emerges.

I take part.

The talking tree groans side to side

Springing to life, saying,

unsteadiness, readiness. 

Water moves under the dock.

I sit. I stand. 

I soften my knees and rock into my heels.

My cold hands know

This world is sunless, radiant,

Breaking away.

A fish!

A blop!

A blip in the continuum.

I drop down.

The sun is up there, somewhere

Behind this grey.

I might wait.

A fish!

I might not.

Thanks to the Edward H. McCabe Nature Preserve for the space to breathe.