Flocks of blackbirds and clouds are similar,
Changing shape and passing by, not staying by me,
Making me look up. The sounds came echoing to me,
Who, from trees and life, watched the fickle sky.
The motion made the tops of the old pines seem
To move. It made me suspicious of the trunk bases,
Making me dizzy and making me listen for breakage.
I remember the noise; crashing and flashing bolts,
or screeching apart the quiet Sunday afternoon,
and both still the same after fifty years.
I don’t climb much now. Some pines are gone along
with some of the ground that taught me footing,
And with some of the people who climbed with me.
Linda, with shiny nut-brown hair, climbing high
in pines, said “The blackbirds are like invaders.
They don’t belong, and the nuthatches spy them.”
She also seemed to be an invader only to find
The booty was not worth it or cost too much;
Or was just passing like blackbirds and clouds
Lingering just enough to pick up some nourishment.
Then, unable to cling against her own inertia,
She tumbled, frothed, flapped her wings,
And was gone. The blackbirds and clouds returned
Quickly, but only my memory makes me dizzy now.
And the thunder and screeching wake me from
My afternoon hammock strung between the pines.
After a lifetime of events, now naps are normal,
A young girl’s squeaks and grunts echo down from
A tree nearby and cause fifty years to melt away
Like sand washes from underfoot in beach breakers.
Frederick (Rick) Solari was raised in the South Shore town of Pembroke, Massachusetts, the only boy in a family of five children. His creative spirit and skilled hands brought him to fine carpentry, prose, poetry and designing and patenting tools.
This poem is from his published book “Out of the Dust”, Copyright © 2009 by the Author
These storied pieces that showcase Rick’s sensitive family and social nature; passion for the outdoors; and love of mountains, ocean, rivers, ponds and forest are given by permission.