Thursday, July 20, 2017

Direct from Martha's Vineyard, Adolfo Caso Presents Weston Bucolic 2

Weston Bucolic 2

Adolph Caso

More than the other seasons,
Is a season of birth and re-births
Of one generation to another.
    Leaves of green enfold the branches;
Colors of flowers embellish their leaves,
Seeds transform into sprouts--
As they did
From beyond
The time Virgil.

No comparison
Between my plush Weston backyard
And of Nonno Gabriele’s
Nineteen century patch
Next to the stone wall of his well,
Covered with effusive branches
Of odorous leaves,
Which he rubbed
Over my forehead and hands—
   Now, an octo,
Getting near to his 92nd,
I automatically bring my hands to my nose.
Though the scent has gone,
Those sweet memories keep persisting.
   I am a boy again!

A single coyote silently strolls
Across my plush green lawn—
I wish
I had
A gun:
   Three little boys live next door to me!

Comfortably, and almost invisibly,             
I sit in my swivel chair.
   From one corner,
I survey the whole horizon
And the activities encompassed within:
The red oak in its majestic silhouette,
Scrub oaks offering shade,
My sister’s dogwoods laden with flowers
Reflecting a canopy of pulsing stars,
The Delicata tree
With its unique apples created
By my late friend, Ned:
Their images wander in my eyes.
   I sit there, silently.
How does it all happen!

Noiselessly, two Robins scamper onto the lawn;
They turn, leap, dive, and jump into the soft grass.
Neither makes one sound or noise.
   In a new phase:
First the mother, then the father,
With beaks full of dry grass,
Begin to fly into the cornered Japanese maple.
In a few days, the flights stop:
Well ensconced within the tree,
They complete their nest.
   Having delivered three grayish eggs,
The mother reduces her flight;
Her concentration is to gather food.
At the same time,
The father flies around
As if he was in charge of military vigilance.
   Their efforts paying off,
Three featherless baby Robins appear,
As prescribed by destiny.
With their egg shells,
Dropped to the fertile soil below,
Mother and Father resume their flights--
Their beaks filled with food.

The nest,
Overflowing with feathers,
The adult Robins fly from every direction.
   Their wings, creating concurrent whirls,
Reflect anxieties on a feeding pace,
As they await their chicks’ first flight.
   Suddenly, and, expectedly,
A consternating raucous blare
Causes me to rush out the kitchen door:
Mother and father are repeatedly diving
Into the tree,
Their deafening screeches
Of the otherwise silent birds
Sound an ominous doom.
   My head peering into the tree line,
It startles the raiding squirrel into fright.
It fearfully runs toward the oak tree,
By the raucous Robins in deathly pursuit;
Their screeches piercing my ears,
They dive
With their beaks aimed at the feared squirrel.
   Having driven the quadruped out of sight,
They return to continue scampering on the lawn
Intent on bring nutrients to their brood.
A baby chick peers out the nest.
Seeing no rhythm to its wings,
The father quickly approaches from behind
And cautiously leads the baby to a nearby oak.
Before long, a second appears.
This time,
The mother repeats the flight.
With the five of them secure in the new tree,
They finally disappear beyond the backyard--
Never to be seen again!
   The loss is impacting my heart.

The un-aware squirrel reappears,
Jumping flawlessly and gracefully
Among the branches—
Its shimmering tail guiding with confidence--
As if,
Neither the Robins,
Nor I, were ever living testaments,
Let alone be the co-inhabitants of its own world.
   I am glad
  Not to have had
                                           The need
To own
 A gun!

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