In Calgary, in the Shaganappi Golf Course by the Bow Trail,
the coyotes are singing above the city’s sirens.
At 5 o’clock the robin begins, at 5:30 the house finch,
and with it, the blunt rumble of the city rises like a giant bubble.
Close your windows to the noise, and you’ll miss the songs—is what
I tell myself. Sometimes I listen.
Above the sovereign Rocky Mountain horizon,
a helicopter beats out prophecies of traffic.
By a calm watercourse, under the elms and spruce,
the first golfers have arrived; one stands apart,
studying a place in the distance, unconscious
to everything but the arch of his swing and the flush strike.
The entire scene, not unlike these birds,
single-mindedly singing at the edge of the freeway,
like they have this voice of knowledge,
and they can’t keep quiet.
There are crowds of orchids yearning in this alkaline city,
like the bodies under blankets, slumped near the C-Train,
or the steely couples in the corridors of money, who do not
go out to the foothills and wait into the evening,
beside a small fire,
smelling the river and feeling the loam beneath their legs.
Alright then, sit here with me, in this abused park.
The finch is not forensic, the robin is not revelation,
There will be no examination. There’s nothing to conclude.
Only to wait. Perhaps a taste of enchantment in the purples
of crocuses, or a flash of holy on the wing of a pigeon,
in the cant of a street light—and if not, well enough.
Wait, listen, sooner or later some Francis-like saint
will come whistling, like those birds, to gather up
all our troubled applications for hope.
This is a beautiful poem.
Thank you, dear Tiffany! Always lovely to hear from you.
A song of breathing for body, mind, and soul.
Thank you.
Todd, I’m truly grateful you found this to be resonant.
I love the idea of someone gathering up all my “troubled applications for hope.” I imagine them caring for them better than I can. Thanks for this and for a nod to my work. A happy surprise.
Wenda, of course I love all your pinhole photography. Your “telling essences.” Thank you for allowing me to share. And thank you for reading and responding!
Breathtaking poem. Then a deep breath as I listen to those birds. Now I am down by the river feeling the loam under my feet. Thank you for sharing this wonderful poem.
And thank you, Diana, for these kind words. (Very happy it enticed you to go down to the river.)
I could hear the birds, sense the flowers and smell the scents in the spring air. Thanks for the pictures in your words, Steve.
Thank you for your encouragement, Beth!
Truly gorgeous. Every line.
You humble me, my dear, gifted, artful, friend.
It’s good to hear you online again.
Thank you, Pat. Thank you for reading.
Once again, you make me want to write, Stephen. About the trilling of red-winged blackbirds by the Highwood River. But I have to make supper just now. So I’ll let it percolate in my mind for now. Thanks and blessings on you for this one. 🙂
Well, to be a small part of inspiring you, makes me happy, Marcia. Thank you.
Beautiful… i don’t want to miss the noise of the birdsong. Of course touched by arch of his swing and flush strike
Jo, thank you! (From our tiny condo, I watch golf every day, and think of you and Dan. 🙂 )
“Wait, listen, sooner or later…
…to gather up all our troubled applications for hope.”
that final sentence resting gently
in my heart
Thank you Stephen -^-
Thank you, Tamara.
I just returned from the base of the Rockies – farther south in CO – and took in the birdsong from the foothills on the front range. The time there with friends, birds, and wildflowers, like your poems, are salve for the soul.
I always enjoy hearing of your extensive travels, and your attentiveness, while doing so. Thank you for reading and for your delightful response