Christmas Robins

Where the meadow ends,
And the woods begin,
A sandy trail continues
Under bending oaks and maples.

Just before Christmas, on my walk,
I see fifty robins that haven’t flown south.

Up ahead of me the flock has landed.
They peck and fly off—so many.

Some of the birds fly
Boldly toward me, flash their
Red breasts and dash off.

Some stay to look for juicy worms
Kicking up leaves in ground not yet frozen hard.

A little farther along, where a still backwater brook
Cuts under the trail,
Half a dozen more drink and
Dip and bathe—shaking their whole bodies.

Beyond the brook the flock thins out
As I continue my trek into deeper woods.

When I later have circled back
They are still there,
Frolicking for only my eyes to see.

December 2007

Obituary

Beauregard, Ryerson’s last beaver, has died.

He was only six years old.
The cause, a broken heart
From loneliness for a mate.

The sage Des Plaines river
Has beached his empty lodge
On its muddy banks.

Born in northern Wisconsin, Beauregard lived
In a place without a name—the wilderness.

As a youth he frolicked with his sibling kitt
In clear streams with sandy bottoms,
Abundant with fish to eat.

His father was an important official
Among the beavers of his precinct.
He built a big lodge for his growing family.

At the age of two years, Beauregard told his father
That he wanted to be a pioneer and bring
The beaver back to Illinois.

He swam south and watched the river water
Turn from crystal clear to muddy.
When he entered the Des Plaines,
It was almost too muddy to see fish.

So, he settled in Ryerson Woods, built a
Bachelor home, and waited for a mate
To swim down from the North.

A few weeks ago, I saw traces of Beauregard.
He had felled a big ash tree and in solitude
Was stripping the bark to eat.

Finally, his heart gave out after years
Of performing only for humans.

Once he performed for me
Showing how he could nibble a tree sprig
Without his big incisor teeth getting in the way.

Now he is gone,
And I stand here
On the riverbank,
Looking north to Wisconsin.

April 2008

Walk to the River

On an early spring morning,
cool air fills my lungs.
I laugh heartily out loud
as I first enter the woods.
This forest is in my blood.

I notice dead logs across the wooded floor
covered in green moss and dark mushrooms.
Nearby are infant trees, teenage trees,
and soaring mature Oaks and Maples
whose leaves obscure the sky.
Here and there seams of sunlight filter
down from the leaf canopy.

The trail is sandy and rock-strewn.
Robins, finches and red-winged black birds
abound and sing.
A squat brown toad with green spots surprises me.
I bend to pick her up but she hops
quickly into the undergrowth.
Next, a raccoon flees my approach and climbs
a tall Maple tree.
Walking on, I spy three timid deer.
They crane their necks and stare at me transfixed.
The fawn leads them off and away.

Soon I reach the Des Plaines river,
surfeit with muddy water from yesterday’s rain.
A colorful Mallard leaves ripples on its
placid, slow moving, surface.
This sage river is the half-way point in my wanderings.

The walk back is less eventful with only vegetation to be seen.
Then, as I rest on a wooden bench to write,
a crimson fox ambles in the distance.
I hear a peel of thunder
and see the sky darken.
It is time to scurry
to the shelter of my car.

2007