We’re losing light earlier everyday. And today, a cloud cover. I’ve been thinking about moving my desk to the bedroom because my study windows faces the front yard and a busy street. The back of the house faces water, swamp like fresh water owned by the goverment. Water reserves. Every now and then I walk to the back of the house to look beyond the trees, now leafless. I stand for a few minutes and count the egrets. Those great white birds. Just a minute ago I counted seven standing in the water, watching and waiting. The other day, a moment before dusk we counted more then thirty banked in the trees. Estuary. Solace. I’m waiting to write a poem again. These last months spent revising and compiling a book of poems written between 1998 and 2014. The Birth of a Wing. I’m waiting for new imagery, new words. A new rhythm. I’m watching the egrets. I’m opening the window in the middle of the night to hear bird sounds. I’m watching the leaves on the ground. This water doesn’t move. It is still. No turning of the tide. Will it in turn bring stillness? A deeper breath? An easier breath? I opened Mary Oliver’s new book, Blue Horses: All I can do is tell you / by putting my own hunger on the page. I’m wating and watching. Losing light. Counting egrets. Listening to the night birds speaking to one another. Waiting. Looking at the blank page, the new stack of white paper.
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