Last Monday we celebrated our first winter solstice. The twinkle lights were up, and sparrows and cardinals had danced outside our window bird box all day. My son watched as I opened his solstice gift after which he promptly sought to put the wrapping paper in his mouth. Mostly, he just giggled at my friend holding the video camera, whom I pestered with, "Did you get it? Did you get the cuteness?" A few minutes of playing with the farm house that Erin sent, and then it was time to brush teeth. Friend and I feasted with an astounding wine (Truchard, yum, yum!) and more (olives, artichoke hearts, and a tomato-basil tart.)
The next morning: heavy fluffy flakes, spiraling past my bedroom window, and more bird visitors.
One of my favorite solstice gifts this year, however, was this poem from Kate (A collection of poems by Billy Collins going on my Amazon wish list riiiighhht...now):
Ornithography
The legendary Cang Jie was said to
have invented writing after observing
the tracks of birds.
A light snow last night,
and now the earth falls open to a fresh page.
A high wind is breaking up the clouds.
Children wait for the yellow bus in a huddle,
and under the feeder, some birds
are busy writing short stories,
poems, and letters to their mothers.
A crow is working on an editorial.
That chickadee is etching a list,
and a robin walks back and forth
composing the opening to her autobiography.
All so prolific this morning,
these expressive little creatures,
and each with an alphabet of only two letters.
A far cry from me watching
in silence behind a window wondering
what just frightened them into flight—
a dog’s bark, a hawk overhead?
or had they simply finished
saying whatever it was they had to say?
By Billy Collins
