Intruders

A sketch poem of this morning and my beloved nuthatches. Last post, a couple days ago was from 42 years ago and this one, 42 minutes ago.

This poem is 42 minutes old, so, not a fine wine. Almost completely unedited, at least by time and my standards but there you have it. I have been working on a monster poem for weeks called Loneliness and this is a respite from that, a real breath of fresh air.

                         Intruders

        Some mornings are a tableau
           of utter stillness and quiet
               except for the chatter
                  of the nuthatches,
             who are always chatting
                  and are never still.

                They sweep through,
       a small but uncountable horde,
      scrambling up and down trunks,
     along the underside of branches
     with a perfect disdain of gravity,
              probing and searching.

        They arrive as a gust of wind,
            in mid chatter like guests
                  who arrive talking.
                They are great aunts
          who never knew a moment
            of shyness, full of inquiry,
          raised eyebrow speculation
   but never quiet and never still until
           they were silenced by the
                 unignorable shush.

           Except for the occasional
                    bear at my door,
           I have, not once in my life,
                been intruded upon
                   by a bird or a fox
                     or even an elk.
                 I look upon them all
                with great fondness. 
     I feel honored by their presence.

               To catch their beauty
         I remain still and hope to also
             catch their innate grace.
         When I must blink or scratch,
                   I realize who has
               intruded upon whom.