“Flutter of Wings”, “The Shrine”, and “The Stopping”

By David Mampel

 

 

Flutter of Wings

 

Father’s Day chatter stops.

A hummingbird hovers

at the pond waterfall

under a Japanese Maple.

Not even mother crow

softening bread in the birdbath

can take our eyes off

the still motion of

eighty-flaps per second,

the green iridescent headliner

sticking out her stringy tongue

to drink the silver flow.

Banking up to a timeless sky

like a breakaway saucer,

the hummer hushes

crowd banter

behind bay windows— 

Dad sits up

on his hospital bed. 

Newsy grandkids

ooh and aah,

even sports talk

is forgotten—

conversation elevates

to a pitch

of feathered insight.

 

 

The Shrine

 

I saunter

at daybreak

in the community garden

behind my tiny home.

It takes a while to thaw–

numbness around the brain,

frozen hearing, sight, smell.

I step deliberately

along the once-fragrant

cedar mulch

between plots,

standing still,

looking east at the Cascade Mountains,

sun-surprised,

warm cheeks,

thoughts watched like icicles

melting into vision–

house finches,

three quiet crows,

a sparrow perching safe

on wisteria bundled up

with recycled wood supports:

a Gorgon’s Head

snaking wildly

toward a patch of blue sky.

Brave Juncos

survey me,

small claws holding on

to an accidental Greek Myth,

a beacon of leafless branches

—greater than any megalithic mystery—

a wild, practical sculpture

these mostly-Laotian farmers

made,

escaping old war wounds

in a castaway land

of City Light field,

birds pecking

a new joy scattered in the mud.

 

 

 

The Stopping

 

Nothing really stops,

but I hope it will.

I park my car

and turn off the engine.

Motion continues

beating my heart,

breathing lungs,

moving cells around

a foggy, Sunday morning brain.

Above the windshield,

a staccato of robins

flock like paratroopers

on a fermented chokeberry branch.

One by one,

the feathered winos

pluck red, ripe vintage,

showing off their trophies

before gobbling down another berry.

I leave the bird festival

and enter a cafe down the street–

surely a cup of jasmine tea

will stop things now!

No one sits on the solitary couch.

Slumping down on a cushion,

I lift the chalice of exotic steam

with cold hands,

closing my eyelids

on a warm hillside in China.

Setting down the cup,

hot tea shimmers,

ripples smooth on the surface.

Half of a laughing face

looks back from my dark green mirror.

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