Adaptation
Some days I hardly remember
What it is to fly
What loss is
When morning feels like betrayal
And shoulders ache
With sudden gravity
Pressed into cruel bone design
Too human for wings
As if I never once awoke
Hair smelling of cloud
Wound in wild knots
And damp with tears
Or slept
Curled into a crevice of wind
Other days I recall myself
Grace confined to memory
In which I have never flown
And it was only ever a dream
Of falling
With all the other angels
Early last year, while walking at First Landing State Park, I noticed a small flock of chickadees foraging alongside a pair of downy woodpeckers. The chickadees seemed like amateurs in such practiced company, but all of the birds appeared to enjoy success.
It was the first time I had seen chickadees exhibit this particular foraging technique, and the already beautiful day brightened. The euphoria of my new knowledge followed me home. It lingered for days, sending me back to the Park for another walk much sooner than I might otherwise have gone.
I was able to capture a few seconds with my camera, a fleeting glimpse that words alone would never convey. I find this difficult to admit, as I love words and am reluctant to acknowledge their limits. I find it even more difficult to accept that the moment can never be reproduced or shared in full. How unfair, that time and space conspire to render memory so singular and personal.
Oversized, loud, and brilliantly crested, pileated woodpeckers command my attention like few other birds. When I hear their call, I find it impossible to keep walking. Curiosity (or is it obsession?) forces me to stop and listen for their foraging raps, creep a few steps closer, then stop and listen again. Each time I catch a glimpse of them, I feel as if I have accomplished something wondrous.
I’m happy to report that speedwell is blooming in my yard.
Perhaps it’s a failing on my part, but I don’t aspire to keep a tame yard. I can’t understand the lawn-care tradition that reviles henbit and purple dead-nettle, dandelions and wood sorrel. From my perspective, these hardy survivors spread welcome blankets of green over otherwise brown winter yards, then they bloom during the bleakest days. Their flowers brighten those February and March weeks when my spirit is at its weakest, when I begin to despair that spring might actually skip a year. So I welcome this speedwell, this miniature blue perfection, reflecting a clear blue sky.
The woods of my youth grew complete with creek and wildlife. I knew every nest, den, and footprint. In summer briars, snakes, and mosquitoes swarmed into the woods. In winter they retreated, surrendering a fey, brittle place where I got lost for hours without ever getting lost. Escorted by a pack of dogs, sometimes by the bravest of our cats, I chased over and around and through the creek, straggling home at dusk muddy and matted with burrs.
In early spring lamprey came to spawn. I gloated over the lamprey, certain they lived nowhere else of consequence. Each March I knelt for hours beside the shallows where they dug their nests. I counted them and marveled at their spots and stripes. I cupped my hands under them and watched them wiggle free over my fingers.
I’m sure I did other things, had other habits and hobbies. But my memory is overgrown, buried in underbrush and fallen leaves, forever snarled in the woods. Should I return now, I don’t believe I’d find my woods. Only a few acres of trees and a little stream.
So where does my nostalgia lead? Not back into the woods. But spending time with these pictures feels like an invaluable luxury in my busy world of adult anxieties.
I wrote this piece a few years ago. I’m reposting it now because these pictures have been calling to me. They are more than shadow and light, more than pixels. They rustle like leaves and smell like wet, happy dogs. (All four dogs are long passed and well grieved.) I can almost taste the crisp air from that misty day in 1992, a rare elixir of youth and solitude and happiness. Perhaps, despite my earlier claim, this nostalgia DOES lead back into the woods.
Rae Spencer 