Musing on an Old Hill

I. Country View
Golden are the hills
with indigenous hay
that twists, tilts, billows
in the wind;
speckled they are
with the deep green
of bushes, shrubs, and trees;
tucked under sun and cloud
and moon and sky,
suspended over
the peace of farms.
Created by the build-up
of plates trying to
grind past each other
until finally: release.
Or perhaps made
by the wind
dropping (releasing)
dirt, seeds, sand, stones
for a million-million years.
And now, here
in these hills,
I am trying to
release what I
have suppressed.

II. The Stalled Bird
And then
wings flapping
moving neither
forward nor backward
standing out against
the golden hay below--
a white bird trapped
in the wind.
Stalled, he said,
like a hang-glider
who gets too close
to the ground, travelling
the same speed
as the wind.
I am mesmerized until
the wind dies and
the bird escapes, shooting
high into the air:
a graceful struggle,
a familiar fate.

III. Sparks At My Fingertips
"If I am a maple key, at least I can twirl" -Annie Dillard

I am stuck
on this bird, both
confused and amazed,
turning it over
and over and over
in my head,
until suddenly
it is clear to me:
we are all maple keys
bound by our design
to twirl however
we want; we are all
stalled birds waiting
for the winds
to die down
before we rush
into the sky
victorious; we are
the flower buds
patiently awaiting
our turn to bloom;
we are the junction
of dirt trails, leading
to three, four, five
different directions.
We are all the same,
trying desperately to
twirl, escape,
bloom, explore.
Sparks at my
fingertips, I am
dying to be set
ablaze.

IV. October
Birds journey south
as the atmosphere cools
and the sun retreats
sooner in shades
of gold instead of fire.
Away from dead leaves
falling down onto the dirt--
yellow orange, and red--
waiting to be crunched
by the sole of my boot,
retreating from growing
nights, changing colors,
and the expected rain.

Certain birds--if stalled--
risk losing their flock if
they cannot escape
nature's ordered wind
quick enough, doomed
to be alone, to never fly
south again, to be trapped.

Trapped, as I have made
myself feel. Suppressed.
Silenced. Subdued.
In fear I have stalled
my potential, frozen
with the thought of failure,
petrified by progress:
stalled in place
like the white bird.

Even with sparks
at my fingertips,
I lack the fire
to be set ablaze.
I would be damned
if I never find it,
falling swiftly
into stagnation--
the worst thing
that can happen
to any human being.