Friday, March 15, 2013


Photo: (c) Jamie K. Reaser

On the fifth morning without power,
after re-lighting the still-embered stove,

I opened the old mahogany door
and walked into the chill of morning.

It was bright, and bold.

The south facing slopes were bustling
with sun-warmed bodies:

Birds. All sorts of birds.

And they were no doubt hoping,
restless insects.

The north facing slopes still slept,
bundled in a sheet of snow
and a thick duvet of mountain laurel.

My ears went out to meet the
small folk:

Juncos and titmice and chickadees.
Song sparrows, white-throats
and a lone bluebird high in creekside sycamore.

But it was the cardinal who spoke to me.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” Was his repeat.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” Through the wooded air.

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!” Into the day.

And, yes, I thought.

This is it!

This is how I shall start all the mornings to come.

I shall open the door
and walk into the world

and tell it:

“Pretty, pretty, pretty!”

© 2013-2015/Jamie K. Reaser
From "Winter: Reflections by Snowlight"
Published by Hiraeth Press

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