Twilight's Interval of Rest

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)