Twilight's Interval of Rest
© Olan L. Smith 10-27-2007
(Photo: c. OSP Prints, 2003)
I lived in the woods
The trees were so very high
That the sun would not fully shine till ten A. M.
And in the fall I would mow
Till the sun dipped beneath the trees
And at that moment, I knew it was time.
I stopped my labor, gathered my gear,
And dressed myself in brown and green
That I might travel in the woods unseen.
When I first purchased this land
Of tall, mostly oaks and hickories
I made trails into the deep
And found a spot so sweet—
There I parked a wooden seat
For future quiet reconnaissance—
And now and then, I would head
Toward this place to meditate and perhaps peek,
As nature goes to sleep.
Was such a day, as this— I did try to place myself,
All dressed like my surround,
Deep in the peaceful oaks and hickories
With lantern I did creep along my trace
To find my seat beneath my trees so tall
And there I did wait for natures call to sleep.
Oh, the splendors of its recognizance
As I did observe nature's magnificent beings creep,
Crawl, and fly to find their homes for rest.
First, I saw two doe that pause for a second―
Their ears twitching, their legs pausing,
As they sniffed the air.
Next, perchance their legs hesitant to move—
And subsequently stop, in cautious concern
Only to saunter pass to deep cedars
Lest they become prey.
Soon, the four legged mammals
Are memories as I sit unmoving
And suddenly, as though called by some silent voice
The timbers come alive as hundreds of squirrels,
Most grays, scurry across the forest floor,
Upon fallen leaves of autumn's chill,
Each beelines noisily to climb a tree,
For twilight's interval of rest.
Once again, 'tis silence which reaches my ears
And the sun further down — goes,
When a more thunderous clamor breaks silence's door
The noise is familiar as though a helicopter does come to land
And I, brought to attention as mighty wings
Pummel feathers upon air.
I look aloft
To see a large darkly colored fowl,
With a long beard dangling from a ruddy, stalk of a neck—
'Tis Ben Franklin's symbol of liberty
Perch high upon a shagbark hickory.
My heart pounding with excitement
So much, I thought they surely would flee,
Soon, more would gather until they number forty-three.
I rested as my beating heart did slow
And as dimness to darkness turned
I silently rose to amble to my abode
When I did take notice of a delinquent noise
Of a turkey― it is late to roost.
I turn and clucked, and to my amazement
He did respond and flew directly towards me
And along with the rest, took perch above my head.
My journey was a success
For I did not arrive to plunder
Or disturb their rest—
I came to watch nature take a nap.
And off I tread through darkened trees
Toward my domicile to recount my tale,
When; I hear a muted, almost silent whoosh, whoosh, WHOOSH!
I gaze, to glimpse a barred owl over take, and then pass.
I'm reminded that for most darkness
Bring respite, for others it is a rousing summon
To seek their prey.
(Photo: c. OSP Prints, 2003)
YOU ARE READING
Twilight's Interval of Rest
PoetryOneness with nature is a joy to observe, because as you observe you become a part of it instead of apart from it.