April 9, 2021: The Jovial Bird

The Jovial Bird
 
Our jovial faces smile from a bridge
That crosses a canyon near the top of the ridge.
It’s a passage about which we had been told
By friends who went searching for wisdom and gold,
 
But they met a giant who got in their way
And said that there’d be a price to pay.
A half ran off, and forgot their intent.
Three fell off the trail in an accident.
 
There were only two who came back on the trail
And besought our help when they told their tale.
We set off to help those caught in a bind,
Knowing that we only had limited time,
 
And being aware:  We might fall into danger
Or be visited on by an unfriendly stranger.
Yet also, what beauty!  What specters of hope!
We carried machetes and a large roll of rope.
 
At the end of the bridge was a road to the sky,
And another that passed by the giant’s castle.
To have the best view, we would need to get high.
Plus, we didn’t want to run into a hassle!
 
Then the clouds rolled in like a blanket of fog.
A storm was brewing, and the wind grew chill.
To warm ourselves up, we began to jog
To the nest of a bird with a golden bill.
 
It was a monstrous bird with massive wings:
So large that two of us mounted its back.
The rest sat in its nest and began to sing,
Beneath a tarp in one of our packs.
 
The bird became a very good friend,
Though two of my buddies he had for a meal.
Still, the others found safety, and in the end,
He fetched the lost ones and helped them to heal.
 
So I was sad for the two, but I could see he was kind,
And flying on its back fairly blew my mind.
So far I could travel, and so much to see!
Never in my life have I felt so free!
 
Still, the rest of my buddies said they had to return.
Some had jobs, or they had family concerns.
We walked back to the bridge, and the clouds all cleared.
Then the road to the sky simply disappeared!
 
I walked back to town, and I’m not sure why.
I guess I just needed to say goodbye
And now, in spite of my family’s wrath
I head back to the bridge, in search of the path.

April 9, 2021: To a Waterfowl by W. C. Bryant, in Oxford Anthology of Amer. Lit., page 332

 To A Waterfowl

Whither, midst falling dew
While glow the heavens with the last steps of day,
Far, through their rosy depths, dost thou pursue
Thy solitary way?

Vainly the fowler's eye
Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong,
As darkly seen against the crimson sky,
Thy figure floats along.

Seek'st thou the plashy brink
Of weedy lake, or marge of river wide,
Or where the rocking billows rise and sink
On the chafed ocean-side?

There is a Power whose care
Teaches thy way along that pathless coast --
The desert and illimitable air --
Lone wandering, but not lost.

All day thy wings have fanned,
At that far height, the cold, thin atmosphere
Yet stoop not, weary, to the welcome land,
Though the dark night is near.

And soon that toil shall end;
Soon shalt thou find a summer home, and rest,
And scream among thy fellows; reeds shall bend,
Soon, o'er thy sheltered nest.

Thou'rt gone, the abyss of heaven
Hath swallowed up thy form; yet, on my heart
Deeply has sunk the lesson thou has given,
And shall not soon depart.

He who, from zone to zone,
Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight,
In the long way that I must tread alone,
Will lead my steps aright.