Storms over Biddeford to the north
dominate the sky,
paint drama on the still ebb tide
waters of Back Creek
where it meets the Mousam.
I hear the thunder
Like watching an army of angels
marching across the landscape
on its way out to sea.
Here at the top of the food chain
it is so easy to forget
that for most creatures
so many waking moments
are eaten up by getting and eating
(or avoiding being eaten).
Gulls do not have poetry
(and certainly there are no crab sonnets)
but I can imagine lions making verse
as they loll about beneath acacia trees,
and we have heard the recorded songs of whales.
It requires leisure,
respite from the struggle,
to turn the mind to hunting images and words.
Time to celebrate life
beyond the living of it,
the getting and the eating
and the avoiding being eaten.
“I’m in love with a big blue frog…”
as Mary (of Peter, Paul, and Mary) sang.
I think it was a song about inter-racial love,
segregation and discrimination…so sixties!
But I never knew there were such things as
actual blue frogs…
(segregation and discrimination,
as a survivor of the sixties,
I am all too aware of)
One in a million. A mutation.
Sitting by a pond in Kennebunk!
So you see. Anything is possible.
Even a final end of discrimination.
in a great celebration of difference
as bold and unlikely (and as beautiful)
as a blue frog in Kennebunk.
The first of the Kennebunk Plains
Northern Blazing Star bounty
to buzz and bumble in the blaze.
Little do they know
they feed on
And in feeding propagate
the next celestial generation,
bridging a gap in eternity
that for all my knowing
I can not touch.
That will have to be enough.
A pack of Cedar Waxwings
polishes off the fresh hatch
of Meadowhawk dragonflies
in their first flight
by the pond of a morning
swooping in to take them
inches from the ground.
Circle of life.
And no more beautiful predator,
no more elegant assassin,
always in evening dress,
than a waxwing.
If a Meadowhawk has to go,
Cedar Waxwing seems appropriate.
Ebony Jewelwings are
what fairy Queens
ride (when they ride
by little forest brooks
and lively falling streams
with rock and song.)
I dare you to prove otherwise!
In sun the flowers are along the road through the marsh
are just a mutter of color in the foreground.
In fog, when the gray mist collapses distance
and damps the light,
they are a shout…a roar of color
challenging the day to do it’s worst…
defiant in the face of fog.
They make me want to cheer.
The Wood Lily
at least in Southern Maine
is a solitary flower.
You might find them in a loose cluster,
spread over 25 square yards,
but mostly they grow one by one…
one here like a burning brand in the tall grass
or at the roots of the pines,
and another there like a distillation of a week of sunsets
at the edge of the pond.
It is rare to find a bouquet of them growing close,
a bright bonfire, so intense it lights the day,
and lifts you right out of any semblance of ordinary…
Our local Swallowtail is the Tiger,
and everyone here calls the common orange day lily
Tiger Lily (though it isn’t)
so, close enough, “Tiger in the Tiger Lily.”
And certainly exotic enough
to justify the name.
Such an outrageous play of color,
form, and texture,
as though the two
were arm wrestling
for the beauty crown!