Old Owl

Docile in daylight
Fierce hunter during the night
All rodents beware!

Hunter's focus true
Winter flights above snow, ice
Talons leave a branch

Silent wings on air
Creates dancing moon shadows
On the forest floor

Old owl, I see you
Shining spirit of the night
Rest your wings today

© 2010 Mike McDowell

New Mary Oliver!

Massachusetts poet Mary Oliver recently released another collection of her nature and prose poems. One of the most gratifying comforts I derive from her words is the gentle way in which she reminds us just how accessible experiences in nature are and that we can stop to take notice of its awe and beauty before our eyes and ears in just about any given time or place.

How I Go to the Woods - Mary Oliver (Swan)

Ordinarily I go to the woods alone, with not a single friend, for they are all smilers and talkers and therefore unsuitable.

I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours.

Besides, when I am alone I can become invisible. I can sit on the top of a dune as motionless as an uprise of weeds, until the foxes run by unconcerned. I can hear the almost unhearable sound of the roses singing.

If you have ever gone to the woods with me, I must love you very much.

Then July

Spring was full of bounty!
So much grandeur for the eyes.
Some mysteries were answered,
others remain in Nature's keep.

Nature's secrets and clues.
I believe they're limitless.
With each answer, another layer,
pealed back, another puzzle.

Beneath the leaves,
or kneeling in the grass.
Admiring fresh wings in the skies.
This perpetual conversation.

Can you hear Nature's whisper?
Does it beckon you?
Sometimes, though, I hear her cry.
Are we hearing? Are we listening?

There is, I believe, great peace,
but also sadness in Nature's embrace.
Through all the seasons,
she still manages to carry me.

Link: Overturned

© 2009 Mike McDowell

Yellow's Song

The edges of fields in June
offer late spring’s sweet fragrance
The Yellow Warbler seems to know
Sweet-sweet-sweet, a little more sweet!

Bicycling, surrounded by color and song
My yellow companion’s trumpet
across a kingdom’s ornate courtyard
How can the connection be made?

For some, if listening, it’s a bird
For others, a whole life’s story
His bright yellow feathers
His delightfully cheerful voice

Or his winter home
Is it far away? How far?
How did he come to this place?
At this particular moment in the world.

There was no other place
I was supposed to be
For a burst of sweet notes
Sweet-sweet-sweet, a little more sweet!

This was what I heard the warbler say
It was all I needed to hear
To know exactly who was there
as I rode down the trail.

© 2009 Mike McDowell

The Waxwing Flock

One flies, and then a few agree.
Several soon follow,
and so goes the flock.

It weaves and flows on the wind.
Gathering, again, in dark branches,
under grey morning skies.



In days I brushed away snow,
as my feet immersed puddles;
spying with a raised umbrella.

In a way, they’ve been my friend.
But I didn’t take their picture,
until, at last, the very end.

© 2009 Mike McDowell

First of Spring

A southerly wind was a saving breath
Black bird red eased winter’s death
Dozens gathered in leafless oaks
singing from atop pines and posts
Killdeer, Killdeer, Killdeer
Sights and songs that spring is near
I couldn't be happier and yesterday such dread
I watched a flock of robins; I wasn't dead.

© 2009 Mike McDowell

The Bandit Warbler

Fearless feathered sprite of the marsh,
I would fancy Bandit Warbler in a name.
These are my folly attempts, but as such,
I think it suits your character all the same.

Your agitated call alerts me when you're near,
chits and chatters when I've stepped too close.
But a master songster rivaling others in your class,
yet sometimes stealthily silent at your post.

Early morning greetings and evening farewells,
how busy you have been this month of May.
I find very little that's common about you,
and enjoy your company of every birding day.

Photograph and words © 2006 Mike McDowell