On my evening dog walk tonight I circled around the pond below the studio. The light was bending in that December way through the trees. The dog seems to love the way the deer poop marinates in the cold perhaps making it even more delicious. I scooted her along and then the close, muscle-sound of big wings pulsed just above my head. I looked up and across to watch a massive bald eagle join its mate in the top of a tulip poplar. My unswept corner of the shore seemed safe, far enough from the majesty of these large birds. There was a scrap of sunlight similar to the brilliance of this small calendula flower growing with confidence while tucked in a protected corner of the garden. Only if I move my arm a certain way,
it comes back.
Or the way the light bends in the trees
this time of year,
so a scrap of sorrow, like a bird, lights on the heart.
I carry this in my body, seed
in an unswept corner, husk-encowled and seeming safe.
But they guard me, these small pains,
from growing sure
of myself and perhaps forgetting.
-- Jane Hirshfield, "To Hear the Falling World," Of Gravity & Angels (Wesleyan University Press, 1988)