bohemian waxwing rhapsody

irruptive unpredictable
confiding & gregarious
the wandering bohemian waxwing

words of ornithology
only begin to describe
the illusive bomycilla garrulus

yesterday
75 or perhaps a hundred or more
among the persistent tiny crab apples
along a winter street in the Soo

nomadic & unconventional
they speak and move as one
and as many

their voices and wings
weave
a rhapsody--
enthusiastic improvisational
uninterrupted & ecstatic

what makes the world turn ?

what is not expected...

yesterday at Searchmont Resort
'Permafrost Revival'
still chillin after 25 yrs.
old timey greets post moderne
live music gets goin'
banjo & mando
g'tars & voice

behind the stage
outside & on the other side of the glass
two boarders jam with harp & slaps
rick & britta turn to include...
the earth itself
gets to spin
a tune or two

Two oh 11 in its prime

its true, 2011 is a prime number
the only year between 2003 & 2017
divisible naturally only by itself & one.

that's the rub
it stands alone--
making our resolve
more solitary
& natural
among a divisive past
or future

'eleven' harkens back to a levity
among elves
their elasticity
elated & elliptical--
venturing elevenfold &
at the eleventh hour
towards an elegy,
elevated & evanescent
demanding the
undivided attention
of our primal nature

totality in solstice

even if you couldn't see it--
consider the drama...
on the longest darkest night
the moon is full
then its light too gives out
creating a dull red opaque face
looking back at you and all the ancestors
since this last happened in 1638

imagine Jan Ver Meer, age seven, in Delft.
painting his first picture.
eye on the detail,
pupil in the moon
camera obscura in the sky

those who came before
were not so much frightened
of the spectacle
as they were respectful--
that is what we've lost
in how far we've gone

ridin' the rails

so i asked forrest
what was the best part about taking
the Via rail from Sudbury to the Cdn. Rockies?
he sd.--the jam session in the dome car!--
with brushes on a tissue box, harps & guitars.
syncopated with the rhythm
& the engineer's whistle wailing in F

there is hope for Canada, for youth & the rest
it didn't end with the festival express
music still happens on a train goin' west.

blogging the bog cranberries

harvesting the wild today
as november 9th weather co-operates,
two stones throw from lake superior.

red berries in standing water,
probably enough vitamin C in this bog
to nourish the entire hemisphere

grey jay by any other name

Grey colour predominates
as tamarack needles
paint the earth gold and fade.
November turns the sun away from this hemisphere.
The further north, the greater that denial is.

If I ever entertain doubts about having relocated
to the north country, thoughts vanish with the return of
Wisakedejak, the whisky jack
Canada Jay, the camp robber,
Perisoreus canadensis, the grey jay

As the sun dips, jays leave their green forest boreal home.
Wisakedejak and her lifelong mate cache food each day
in the clips of spruce bark. Skillful and smart, ghostly and gifted,
they sweep out from the treetops,
to engage humans like no other species.

Landing on your hand,
taking the bread from a hatbrim,
or pausing to look you deep in the eye,
there can be little doubt of why you chose this place,
or why it chooses you.

jeffrey riordan hinich, copyright 2010