Through seasons in pairs, they come and go and come again, returning to spring with predictable stubbornness. Digging claws into roots. Perching. Planting. Pecking. Sucking. Buzzing in the new season when bright green stems grow in the old field to remind us how busy the birds and bees have been.
Summer comes with its fiddleheads and ferns to blanket the forest floor. Pollen harvested from pussy willows and honeysuckle, both of which make us blush with a tickle between our thighs. We bob and run, though we know it’s quicker to fly. But why bother, when we can enjoy this moment more clearly? We even climb rocks, spotting or pulling one another when the weight gets too heavy
Autumn flashes cold air and whispering trees bend down to greet us. There is a fresh smell of rotting foliage from rain as we sit fireside with bourbon in our hobbit glasses. This is the season of smokey fog and lichen-covered wet leaves. If it’s not too early, I might even ask you to help me keep an eye open for shed-hunting.
In the stillness of winter, silence penetrates the soft absence of life in the woods– a paused dull moment of silence, where you feel far away and I feel lonely. When the fire between us should be burning brighter, it snuffs and a cold chill comes in, creating a vast space from you to me. Like our love, feelings might flee, leaving biting tongues and cold shoulders. I might walk away in stubborn silence, and you might make a dig that you hope I don’t notice (but really hope I do).
Hatched eggs fly away like our dreams, yet we will point our beaks down to preserve this safe little burrow of light. With love’s return, warmth will push aside that laden stubbornness. Always returning to be wrapped up in the nest we built together with beard hairs and twigs. In this quiet place between anchoring pines among shadows, with the juniper essence brushed up against our wings, we are the nest. Where I am, there you are.
The Word Mill 