Seasons, Egrets and Death

 

I set out to see the egrets but they were gone. There are things in nature I can watch for hours, lightning storms, meteor showers and egrets on water are some. The wingspan of an egret is roughly two feet less than that of an eagle. In stillness their white regalia makes forest backgrounds fade. Majestic and elegant flying over water, still captivating, though not as dramatic as an eagle stretching out to snatch a fish from the water (go watch a Mark Smith video). The egrets are gone from the rookery. To return in Spring. The cycle of seasons.

The question on the intake form, “Do you think of death?” I answered no (I lied) and handed the form back to the masked lady behind the desk. I think of death often. It seems a natural thought process. I mean, the song that put Marc Scibilia on the charts begins, “I’ve been thinking about dying, and how that’s gonna be…” In Christ it’s the air we breathe; crucified savior, cruciform life. Even Solomon says, “It is better to go into a house of mourning, for that is the end of every man, and it causes the living to take notice.” Maybe I should have answered yes to that question. The question should read, “Do you think about death without hope?”

My hope is to photograph an egret in it’s glide over the water. White wings shimmering in reflection, all creation still and silent. And why head to the rookery? To quote Lewis, “But nature gave the word glory a meaning for me. I still do not know where else I could have found one.” For nature awakens in us longings for another world. I glimpse that in the egret.

Photo by Akshat Adsule on Unsplash

God Of Wild Outside

In childhood bed with wheezing lung, I couldn’t sleep just gasp,

I’d set my mind on storybook scenes and roads and maps.

Burdens change, that wimpy kid, anxious and alone,
Found solace when by foot or car he set out on his own.

A fledgling man in mothers’ house, never felt at home,
Find a squiggle on a hiker’s guide, lace up and out to roam.
Bottled up with teenage rage, always asking why,
Hoping that there’s a god who hears when shouting at the sky.

Inside my room with panting breast, I need a God of wild outside,
Who places stars in motion and boundaries for the tides.

In a scorched and aching place upon a desert path,

Atop a climb a tiny stream yields a patch of grass.
Hope rises up beside a sob for a future yet unseen,
Creation reminds me once again that you promise pastures green.

In open field by red painted barns, wild geese go drafting by,
Or crashing waves on white-washed beach, I cease from asking why,
There’s a hint, an unbroken place, nature writes a note,
In honey-sweet Wisteria, maple-syrup creosote.

When I’m dying and can’t catch a breath, I need a God of wild outside,
Who thunders in the heavens and makes chariots His ride.