As I draw together the curtains

on a winter afternoon

the street is gently breezy -

Disney-waltzy in 3D colour.

Over the rooftops

naked branches cast nets upon electric blue

where birds in flight ride Russian violins

in ecstatic sweeps of long slow motion.

Twigs from the giant willow

almost finger my window pane -

the tapping tambourines

of my silent orchestra -

and I am charmed.

 

Suddenly

unheralded by horns

a rogue gust

attacks the huge pine across the street

thrashing its peak wildly

like a puppy neck-wrestling a rag doll.

Overhead the sailing birds veer widely

hang suspended in mid-flight -

specimens pinned to the skyboard -

then swerve in great parabolic curves

around a shifting horizon

helpless in the fierce wind.

The pine tree seems almost wrenched

from its roots.

 

How many breaths do I draw

before the violence passes

leaving in its wake dazed birds -

like those seeking shelter

in my mammoth willow?

 

For I clearly see:

two perplexed pigeons huddled together ...

a befuddled dove tightly folded ...

a discombobulated blackbird a bit unsteady ...

a scruffy magpie straining to maintain image ...

and – yes – a ruffled robin on a lacy twig

flicking its sharp little tail furiously.

Even through glass

I  can hear the holly hedge hopping

with indignant twitters.

Our bold gulls must have taken refuge

upon canal waters.

All seems safe -

All safe.

 

And I, too,

as I close the curtains against the chill

and go to the kitchen to brew a cuppa -

not inclined to philosophize

not even a bit.

Just – make tea.

 

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas

Jan., 2016