I went out on the deck—felt the wind of the presence –before the jibe caught the gust of a yesterday’s breeze blowing into the sail.
The keel visibly surfaced two feet above foaming water, in an awkward lean, water marks on the humming board, visible as eye could see —Oh shit! I braced myself against the rail on tippy-toes. leaning in the opposite direction, baptized by the sea.
Tapping the “Captain” on the shoulder, I went below.I rocked and balanced myself with each swell of cresting ten-foot waves; catching myself descending with arms extended against the polished teak stairs and the polished walls into the belly of the bow.
Remembering the keel’s markings “MY LIFE”; both hands against the wall, I balanced myself, being driven across the course of tomorrow.
I will continue to sail —as sea mist foams against the closing rocks of the shore.
“From childhood’s hour I have not been
As others were — I have not seen
As others saw —
I could not bring
My passions from a common spring —
From the same source I have not taken
My sorrow — I could not awaken
My heart to joy at the same tone —
And all I lov’d — I lov’d alone –“
“Alone” Edgar Allan Poe
Chapter I
High in a dying butternut tree, above the climbing bittersweet,
a pair of sparrows sat entwined.
Bobbing and pecking, with tail feathers visible,
they pushed and pulled, constructing a nest
from winters fallen twigs and kites’ missing strings.
Both unaware of the advancing wings on seductive winds
gliding in the heat of post-World War II victory;
with bold brown patches and brasso colored flares
flirting shamelessly with all the birds in nesting trees.
Mother: after laying her eggs, suddenly took flight on a south east breeze:
wings spread, open feathers, abandoning history.
Father: in haste, wondering who was first;
found in the chase, with another mate
in a steeple of an abandoned Christian church.
Chapter II
Four hatching, cracked through egg shells
in a nest below a large branch, in a dying butternut tree.
Small insects dropped, in sacrifice, as meals
to their gratefully awakening beaks.
Weeks passed in the aging butternut tree
providing shelter, meals, and summer comfort.
The first hatching, though weak,
fluttered, stretched, and skittered
to stand on quick strengthening feet;
to peek and seek for something he felt, was missing.
Something unable to find, something not complete.
Something to teach him about sky, ground, gravity
and all that scary in-between.
Chapter III
Innocence in the face of dilemma,
all of them eventually perched on the ragged brim.
Taunted by instinct and haunted by uncertainty;
to leave and fly, to land on air, or just plain fall and disappear.
Watching them teetering on the rim,
the brave-born, with a sweeping two wing lurch
pushed them off before him.
Falling! Falling! They fell then dipped into swooping grace.
Wings with instinctive motion, caught them in flight.
Never looking back, they disappeared swiftly
between the pines, the hardwood’s, and the butternut’s plight.
Chapter IV
The last sparrow, now with confidence, excited without anxiety,
leaning chest first, feathers outstretched, he jumped too.
Falling much too close to the butternut tree
he became entangled in the vines of the creeping bittersweet.
Tumbling, swirling, crackling, he landed with a broken wing.
