Waking finds me through a conflicted feeling. As
the white powder of an unforgiving blizzard
burns my forest, this feeling churns in my
gizzard; I do not want to go outside, where
the wind winds whistling ‘round, but it is my
duty and I know I will regret staying holed
up in here, wondering at such a peculiar
feeling. My nest of Lavender breaks under
the contraction of sharp talons, and the petals stick
to secondary feathers as I stretch my wings, warm them
with a furious flapping that disturbs the old
ghosts lingering for shelter as I slumbered. But
the time has not yet come for me to work them in flight.
I poke my head beyond the hollowed knothole
of my home, and clamber down the Grand Fir
that breaks the sky. But the sky has been replaced
with a vast ocean of glittering lights, stars that
freckle heaven’s face with musical twinkles, soon
lost even to my piercing eyes as I descend the Fir’s
trunk to the forest floor and am chilled to the core
of my hollowed bones by this mammoth snowstorm.
But I have seen worse – I have been worse, and a
Midwinter’s husky heaving is not enough to hold me
prisoner of that hole that beckons with tender warmth. Somewhere
the Something calls – has been calling, for a long time –
and it is especially for me that it calls. I must meet this Something
to let it know that I have heard it. Though the sleet-like fog
is weak to my immovable form, my ancient eyes grow
foggy and blind. Seeking that Something’s call,
I sing my own reply:
“Who are you, who wander here –
Lost, alone, and incomplete?
Hark this tender, lulling sigh
Lilting lithely through my trees,
Bidding you seek out a form
Following swiftly behind
As it extends caring claw,
Helping you go on your way.”
“Oh, hello there. That’s a very pretty tune…Do you
live around here?” shivered a withered, delicate voice
behind me. Huddled in the cold, wrapped in a moth-
bitten old coat far too large for her hunched body,
stood a lone woman as old as the northern glacier
and as beaten as the Galanthus. Still she offered two
creases of the cheek curved shivering upwards
at me, and plodded ever so slowly to where I loomed,
streamer-like primaries and Supercilium flowing in
the heavy storm, a dark aura in this, a dark Winter’s night.
But the elderly woman approached me all the same,
even with delight in her heart, though I could crush
her like an insect. But I would not, for that is not
who I am. “I am the Custodian of this endless forest,
and have risen from my slumber in harkening to
your call. And who, my child, might you be?”
The old woman erupted with a timeless laugh, the
laugh of one whom has seen all humor and graces
this particular joke in light of them all. “I don’t
remember much, but I do know that I haven’t
been a child for a long time.” Her eye gleamed
as the specks above and her joints creaked when
she finally stood before me, frail, no taller than
my breast. But the life was in her and ignited
a hearth within that would not be extinguished.
I leaned over, bill inches away from crooked nose.
“What do you seek, aged woman, lost in my
forlorn forest, set apart from time and space,
when the sun has been shot down by the lunar
hunter, his pallid wolves seeking the blood of hope?”
Once again, the woman laughed in my face –
I found her courage to be endearing and true.
“What do I seek? Something that makes sense,
I’d say, and I’m not sure your poetry does the trick.
But maybe, since I’m so very cold, the best thing
for this old skeleton is a good deal of warmth.
After that, maybe some pleasant company, happy
people, and then maybe I’ll feel happy, too, and most
likely more than just that. I prefer to be pragmatic
and rational, and a place as I have described seems
the ticket. Do you know any place like that?”
“I do, in fact, know a place better than all that.
It is called the Pasture. Shall I take you there?”
The old woman stroked my collar affectionately.
“You are a good, kind sort of strange creature,
and I will trust your judgment since I, relatively,
have not been on the Earth for many years at all.”
A baleful growling resonated among the Sitka spruces –
The red wolves from the Wild did not agree, for
the pack was starved by the storm they created, and
desired the old woman should become their prey.
“Begone, hounds from Hell! This young soul has
made her decision. You have no teeth to bite, no
claws to scratch, so why do you resist the outcome
of a battle you cannot win?” With an angelic shriek
I pounced upon the Alpha, with his cracked hooves
and scrawny hide, rending him to shreds with my
claws and beak. He put up no fight, knowing it was
lost long ago, and the rest of the mutts bounded off
yelping through the empty wood back to the Wild.
The old woman ever remained calm and faithful.
“They were yours, child of my own heart, and
have followed you ever since you were born.
You could never see them, but faced them often,
and they are the Something that you needed to
be freed of. But now that you are, you are ready
to come with me into the Pasture?” Her head bowed
in the nod of one who cannot resist, but knows that
there is nothing to fear. The folds of her reptilian
skin had begun to smooth, and her eyes widened
as the bags sunk into plush cheeks. So youth, which
lost her along the way, was finding its path home
to the decaying form it had lost sight of, though
she had only come back to where it starts.
“I’ve been ready for a long time.”
There is no deal, there is no pain, there is
no trick, there is only the understanding
between I and them, but it always means
the world to me, taking those like this old
woman across the gates of the Pasture. I
pluck her gently into the sky, above the raging
blizzard below blinding the Earth and freezing
its core, my powerful wings pumping as
we soar over the canopy of wooden tundra,
the cacophony of pine and pain, a common
commotion, only natural, but below she and I.
The elderly woman does not fear the height, or
glance down once, or even hold fast to my
steady tarsi for support; she is still as a
lamb in the wool of its mother, serene and content.
“I know who I am now.” She says with a
sigh. “Do you pity those whom will come later?”
“No, because they will come later, and patience
is always the most logical of reactions to the
most unfamiliar of situations.” As she had said,
so it was. And I knew without asking that she
had long since made up her mind about the
Pasture, and was content, and could think of
nothing else – This was natural, and good, and right.
With a single sweep of my magnificent wings,
we ascend vertically into the sky, through the grey mass
of ill-tempered thunderheads, splitting the
moribund atmosphere, snipping the
very intricately and beautifully stitched
fabric of time; we pass by the cheerful
Sopranos of Spring, the lax Altos of
Summer, the eerie Basses of Fall, and
the festive Tenors of Winter, all a grand
ballroom dance in the cosmos, rushing
together to greet us. The old woman takes
on a new dance partner, eyes forward and
smiling ahead; she will go on to the Pasture.
I will follow, but not yet – Not yet.
With farewell, so I greet
the newly budding Earth with a tune
harking Dawn’s triumph over Night.
I return in turn from whence I came
until the next poor wandering name.
“Draw thee hither, crinkled Miss,
For pitch-blind is the land.
You’ve seen what Winter has in store
For lives decreasing, days of yore
That once meant everything to you
Become a curse, their blessed hue
Gone with every passing snow
Unto when? No one shall know
But you, who treasure Death’s sweet kiss,
Finally received on Yonder Side.”
I have been here since your birth;
Life comes and goes, yet I remain
to support you despite your false belief
that I mean to harm you, hurt you,
give you grief. But this is not true.
I wait for you, here, in forest thick,
where souls are lost and life is found,
and you shall know that I am but
your friend, to guide you safely home.
And the Pasture rings with song:
“Hark ye the Dirge of Ashen Oak,
Tome of Wood – Herald of Life –
Reaching forth cross darkest hour
To sow its seeds in deep despair
Among the souls
And settle there.
The hope resides in heartheld soil –
Roots burrow and blossoms bloom –
Still, there is time to turn towards light
Should you wander forlorn in forest old –
Seek watching Spirit,
Warm wings enfold.”
Morning's Early Dark 