FeatherBrook


My cousins and I liked to hike the woods in my home town of Merrimac Massachusetts. On one hike, we came across a beaver pond near the old railroad bed and spooked an osprey. I had never seen one before. It was majestic. One night many years later I had a dream and this is what I saw. Thank you Kathy Swantee for creating a water color print of my dream. [ Home ]
	Feather Brook Close by a crest that acts to bridge Two stately mounts that higher still Rise to shadow the sylvan ridge, That births the brook, though now a rill. Seeping beneath the oaken leaves Which skin over the saddle's ground, The rill within jauntily weaves And oozes through the leafy mound. A streamlet forms rill upon rill, Enjoining their riv'lets they merge; Hastily tumbling down the hill, With each new wave, a forward surge. Pulsing through time worn channels and Glistening as it bubbles on, Like a crystal vein etched in sand, Sparkles the stream by early dawn. Still more runnels the brook do feed, Its girth is no longer narrow. Despite the swift and sprightly speed Its inner depth remains shallow. 'Twixt hillocks, it rambles and wends, A ribbon of water unspools. Resting pondlets fill hairpin bends, Eddies linger in deeper pools. Grassy banks follow alongside; The brook reflects their emerald hue. A mist sprays as the waters glide, Forming droplets, like morning dew. Come the rapids, turbulent tones, Burbling, gurgling, a boiling sound Of waves leap-frogging rounded stones, That hold steadfast their rocky ground. Amidst the turmoil mayhem grows, Scatt'ring the current all around; Gushing, rushing it onward flows Between the rocks, with lichen crowned Over rough ground and its troubles, Cascading past white foaming froth, The water, churning with bubbles, Continues down its winding swath. Into a lowland bowl pouring As water in a basin swirls, Brook and waterhole meet stirring Melding the two with corkscrew curls. Fallen leaves the color of brass Sharpen the outline of the shore. Like a teardrop of isinglass, Sits the pond on the forest floor. A feather rolls across the ground Attracting a gray squirrel's eye. Catching it with a rustling sound, He hies it to his nest up high. Bounding with the feather he took Firmly clenched in between his jaws, He scrambles upward past his nook; The bark scratching under his claws. O'er the pond, with a crescent bend, Arcs the squirrel's tapering bough. He creeps with care nearer the end, As far as his weight will allow. Hanging by the thinnest of sticks, His tail twitching among the leaves, Playing, with chattering and clicks, He flings the feather to the breeze. First tumbling, then spinning around, The plume steadies its final flight. To a clockwise gyre, surface bound; Lightly lilting, it loses height. Molted by an aging osprey, The lissome plume is long and white, Ivory ribbing edged with gray, Gleams in the sunshine, clean and bright. Settling on the trees' reflection, Sending outward ripples minute; Rings of circular perfection Follow each one in close pursuit. The quill moves by wat'ry forces, Lodging against a woven jam. The current still its way courses, And gushes through the beavers' dam. Dream on dream, a scene emerges, As season on season goes by; A fresh understanding surges, With the meanings that underlie. The brook still bubbling as it flows, Chronicles a life's procession; Taking note of its episodes As they happen in succession. Contained within the pond's damp shore, The mind's choosy memory lays. Kept secure in the reservoir Are reflections of by-gone days. Pregnantly stored are keepsakes, old Events, emotions, faces dear. Narrations waiting to be told, Some with anguish, others with cheer. The pond itself begins to shrink In the vision that is to tell. The running brook becomes like ink, The quiescent pond, an ink's well. Larger, larger more grows the quill, Dwarfing the wooded surrounds, when It lightly moves upon a will, For the quill is now a quill pen. Sketching the transit of a life, Past times and happ'nings live anew; Its loves, its travels, and its strife, Now seen with a different view. Like a deep well from which we draw, Provides for our thirst's appetite; Life's experiences we saw Provide the ink with which to write. Summer-Nov 1995
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