White-Eyes
By Mary Oliver
In winter
all the singing is in
the tops of the trees
where the wind-bird
with its white eyes
shoves and pushes
among the branches.
Like any of us
he wants to go to sleep,
but he's restless—
he has an idea,
and slowly it unfolds
from under his beating wings
as long as he stays awake.
But his big, round music, after all,
is too breathy to last.
So, it's over.
In the pine-crown
he makes his nest,
he's done all he can.
I don't know the name of this bird,
I only imagine his glittering beak
tucked in a white wing
while the clouds—
which he has summoned
from the north—
which he has taught
to be mild, and silent—
thicken, and begin to fall
into the world below
like stars, or the feathers
of some unimaginable bird
that loves us,
that is asleep now, and silent—
that has turned itself
into snow.
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I had a quiet but nice shortest day of the year. Paul made us brunch before he went for a dental cleaning. I got some work done, some chores done, and some belt-making done for the spiral goddess I got as a gift in the solstice exchange from Brigid's Grove's Creative Spirit Circle, in which I also got a resin seascape bottle necklace and some other goodies. Paul and I took a walk before it got dark, saw bunnies and squirrels, and came home for ham and cheese pie for dinner.
My Voyager group watched "The Q and the Grey" -- with which I have a long and complicated history, dating before it originally aired, thanks to a leaked script and friends from Kate Mulgrew's fan club; now it's nostalgic, though parts of it feel so dated it's embarrassing. Then came the end of the Covid-delayed NFC match-up in which the brand-new Washington quarterback could not beat the Eagles, any more than the Rams could beat the Seahawks. Fredericksburg's Window Wonderland:
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