MARK THE SEASONS © Mike Lee The stuppled fields that fill the delta’s flatlands wait the spring, to grow again new crops for summer harvest. All things are covered with a dusting of late winter snow and icy fingers of cold air weave low gray clouds together. Winter’s sun is bowing in the distance, painting everything in sight in pastel shades of subtle colors. All is calm – there is no wind – and peaceful. Overhead, but out of sight, I hear the calls of geese that come here every winter where they too await the spring to fly back north. While here, they feed the fields in numbers by the millions, adding sound to sight. I see a blur towards the east. A swarm of gray lifts from the earth and mounts the sky; a stirring, boiling mass of plumage, shades of black and white. It rises and then separates to form into long lines that each one compliments the others, as in skeins of birds formed into vees. One follows yet another as they pass above me winging westward, aiming towards the dying sun. They are in numbers by the thousands and their calling fills the air with sound they pass to one another. I listen with my heart and watch them with my eyes to better understand the meaning of their company for they have yet to choose to venture north. Their union forming flights of perhaps several hundred birds or more; long arms that vary slightly as they ride the wake of ones ahead in each position as they pass. And all the while, they’re calling out their place by re-affirming in the flock they are in line. They know, by sound, their fellows and, by sight, they track the ones before them while the lead bird chooses their direction. My spirit calls to them to justify their pathway and in unison, a thousand flyers teach me of their ways, that they are chasing after setting sun and that they honor its’ last dying rays. They’ll settle for the night at the horizon where they’ll wait until the morrow’s light then they will mount again and seek the east to welcome morning’s sunrise. Their skeins will once again pass over where I’m standing and I’ll listen to their symphony and watch them greet the sun. I’ll revel in their company and watch and listen while I can because, one morning soon they’ll mount with wings of distance and turn north to find the summer. They’ll be gone and I’ll not see them till the end of season, in the fall, when they’ll return to make the delta fields their winter home and bring back with them sights and sounds of nature’s splendor.
Posted on: Tue, 04 Mar 2014 22:09:09 +0000
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