Courage

Courage

Courage surrounds her children
With sharp railed chairs
Rowdy friends and wasps
Conceding the wisdom of pain

She knows the world
Which her children must meet
Its deep rushing water
And sweet-tongued strangers
And cabinets lined with poison

Courage hopes children see clearly
Between fear and danger

She allows her charges
Conversation with fanatics
The writings of heretics
And knowledge of many gods
With their many different histories
Of savagery

She aches
When her children discover
That not all facts are truth
And not all truths can be known

And Courage stands by
As her children learn the only skill
That can ever, really, be learned
The individual and perfect art
Of survival

Where deep water holds less dread
For one who understands its current

Moss Forest

If I were a fairy, I would want to live in a moss forest.

Photo Failure, Tufted Titmouse

I’ve been hearing a tufted titmouse call for weeks. These birds have a loud, clear call that carries. (You can hear a sample here.) I find it hard to guess how far away the bird is, when I hear one calling, but it always seems to be across the road or in a neighbor’s yard or a few streets over.

Today one visited our yard, hopping through the pear tree as it sang. I desperately wanted a picture of this little bird and managed to catch several frames of it. None of them are quite right. The top photos are my best shots of the day, but I never did get “the” picture.

The following are a few of my failures. They are like many of my writing failures, suffering from poor focus, flat light, or awkward angles. But, unlike my writing, I can’t save these photos. They are missed opportunities with no chance of salvage. I can’t edit them into success.

I hope to remember these photos the next time I sigh over a stubborn phrase, resenting the work of revision.

From the Dove Archives

Our yard is full of doves. I watch and listen as they amble along our fence, browse beneath the feeders, and coo low love songs from our roof. I follow their nests in our pear tree, in our roses and pansies, and wave goodbye when the fledglings fly away. Do they return, sometimes, when they are ready for nests of their own?

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All these doves in our yard. Do they also watch and listen, wondering where we came from and where we will go?

Sunset Rainbow

Yesterday evening my back yard was the rainbow, my front yard the pot of gold.