Into the Cedars


I enter the cedar stand
With muffled footfall.
The Bay wind
Traveling at my side
Did not make it into the canopy.
Decomposition of years beneath.
Carpeted mosaic,
Dead-fall, granite, root-fingers, lichens.
Gnarled, ruddy sentries
In light-green camouflage,
Note my arrival.
Guarding the Past.
Guarding the Present.
Guarding the Peace.
Guarding the Plan.
A barking raven-my herald.
Doubtless, chipmunks and
White-tail freeze in their fashion,
Wondering if I mean harm.
Temperature drops a few degrees.
Shades are drawn.
Hospitable host, though shy.
Quietly checking out my manners.
I sense I must stand still,
Waiting.
Honouring timeless laws
Of territory.
As if to be waved in.
Frozen moment.
(Excepting only the
Carpenter ant dragging
Moth five-times-his-size
Along a fallen trunk.)
Some Conductor flips his baton.
Green-noise musical score resumes.
I am in.
Perhaps given the tour.
Nuthatch sidles around a trunk
To give me a peek.
Above, though hidden,
That clarion white-throated
Summer sound:
“Chee-chee-chee-Canada-
Canada-Canada.”
All around me traces,
Evidences
Of the continuing symphony.
Rabbit pellets.
Fox-fur snagged on a branch.
Tree-trunk porcupine lacerations.
Persistent flies
Around remnants of a red squirrel
Mishap.
Somewhere out there
The bright relentless sun,
Open Bay, lapping.
Sparkles in the marsh grass
At the sandy shore.
My Evinrude.
In here, community, concord, calm.
Occasionally, a burst of brilliance
Overhead.
As if Sun-God
Attempts invasion through the roof.
But the assault diffuses
Through lacy green
And settles disarmed,
Muted member of the carpet-floor.
How much more, noble red-man
Would have studied,
Sensed, smelled, heard:
He, in suit of two-year doeskin.
He, in feather, clam-shell breastplate.
He, the sum of many travels.
He, apprised of cedar-house rules.
He, the watcher of its ways.
This is his, and theirs.
I love it.
And seek adoption.
If only for the weekend.

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