I remember deer leaping in the light.
Early March—That Whistle
Some say bald eagles
lay eggs in early March,
and we’d seen them,
now and then, hauling sticks
to the old nest,
but I was out and looked up
because I heard that whistle.
He was on her, and ever since
I’ve been mulling the fact
that she must have whistled.
Now a New Moon
Now a new moon
is on the rise,
so we wait
for the wild
to come out,
birds to come back.
Cold holds night
in its claws,
but sun
loosens the days.
Dusk undresses
in our windows.
Sunny, with Wind and Thirty Degrees
This morning it’s a world of birds,
every corner, chirping or singing.
The pair of bald eagles,
rushing out, rushing back,
whistling in a new fashion.
Large and small woodpeckers
have come with their mallets,
and trees echo like xylophones.
Robins, only a few days back,
are in the woods, rustling leaves
like drummers with brushes.
Four Wild Turkeys Crossed the Road
Walking business-like as turkeys do,
they crossed the road in a line,
their long skinny necks
and small heads,
leaning into the direction
and pulling those dark,
heavy bottoms,
like train cars,
legs churning
over the snow,
under the pines.
We smiled
and looked back.
Black turkeys crossing the road
in the gray bloated morning.
The Wind Had Changed
Sapsuckers drummed in the woods.
You picked up sticks
and brush in an air of pines.
Then on a night,
peepers called from the channel
between the lakes,
and you knew
the angle of light had shifted;
your mother’s grave on the hill
would be warmer, too.
Now the Bald Eagles Are So Solicitous of Each Other
Something must be up.
You can see how they stick close
now, whistle and whistle,
going and coming.
Out of the blue,
they’ll dive
and drop, claws extended,
into the top of the white pine.
It’s how they’ll sit
for a few minutes,
one on the bare branch
and facing west,
the other on a branch
alongside and facing east,
before she hops
down to the nest.
It’s how their whistling
rises, circling,
then falls back,
settling around them
and on us and on our days
and how we have to stop,
constantly,
and look out and look up.
When He Came Back
This morning, when the eagle came back,
banking west, then gliding over the great pines,
she began to whistle, as usual, from the nest,
loud and almost squawking, her tail
snapping, like two fingers, against the sticks of the nest,
with her effort, but then another whistle
joined in, too, though not as loud, and, I suppose,
less sure, being new and unpracticed,
yet, there, definitely there to be heard and counted
while the male skimmed over the treetops.
They’ll Go Off Together
Three, four times a day now
the bald eagles go off together
for a circle and glide over Robinson Lake,
though, surprisingly, they’re back in a minute,
both whistling, it seems, greetings
answered by a quieter, less shrill whistle
from below, while she extends her great feet,
lifts her great wings to her head,
and plops down with a flurry of feathers
onto the great clump of sticks in the center
top of the white pine and the male lands
and sits on the bare branch tip, like a symbol.
From Below
1.
We walk, looking up,
our heads full of clouds.
How do we respond?
A pair of bald eagles
has nested in the great
white pine back of our garage.
And with all the whistling,
now, you can understand
if we’re a little on edge
and less fun company
as we try to avoid noises
or any behavior out of routine.
2.
They do fly a little more driven,
less free to glide
where the winds go,
now that we’ve heard
a fainter whistle in answer,
coming up from below.
The Wind Vane
When he sits on the top
bare branch of the white pine,
above their nest,
he’s a guardian,
a sentinel,
a living Yankee wind vane.
You can see the wind
off the lake
ruffle his white head feathers.
He’s like us,
then, for that moment,
subject to the whirls
and wiles of the wind,
before he rises
and sails on its every twist.
Everyday We’re on the Lookout
We’ve heard a third whistle coming from the nest,
and we don’t want to miss the coming out.
When we wake, we go to the windows.
Outside, we walk with upturned faces, eyes
on the tops or just above the trees. A fluttering,
a half whistle rising, a shadow crossing our path
is enough to make us change our direction.
Yesterday both eagles lifted out of the white pine,
circled the lake and came back.
From inside the house, I followed their loop,
window to window like a pellet
in a hand spinner. When I went back
toward the kitchen,
dawn had lit the tops of the trees
along the east bank of Birch Lake,
as if they had suddenly stood up, the blood
spinning, rushing to their heads like flames.
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Tracks on Damp Sand Page 3
