Sometimes I lack words to articulate the wrench in my gut. Yesterday morning I spied a hawk on a utility pole adjacent to a farmer’s field on Jackson Slough Road just south of HIghway 12 on Andrus Island. I stopped to photograph the bird. When I got home and uploaded the picture, his deep stare into my lens startled me. In that moment, I felt incredibly insignificant. A poem by a St. Louis sister came to me. While my feeble utterings can never rise even to the level of her poorest fare, we share a hometown so I dare to claim some connection.
For a moment, I will let my sister’s words speak for me.
It’s the twelfth day of the ninety-seventh month of My Year Without Complaining. Life continues.
There Will Come Soft Rains
Sara Teasdale – 1884-1933
There will come soft rains and the smell of the ground,
And swallows circling with their shimmering sound;
And frogs in the pools singing at night,
And wild plum trees in tremulous white,
Robins will wear their feathery fire
Whistling their whims on a low fence-wire;
And not one will know of the war, not one
Will care at last when it is done.
Not one would mind, neither bird nor tree
If mankind perished utterly;
And Spring herself, when she woke at dawn,
Would scarcely know that we were gone.