And . . .

Happy Holiday!

Excuse my ‘Contact, Contact” — just blogged.

Totally not seasonal, and Thoreau wants me seasonal. I should look up from class notes and paper grading to the calendar!  Get oriented!

I’ll write later about Frankfurt on the Rhine and its wonderful hot wine and carousel and American Christmas carols sung upbeat from a performing stage in the middle of a medieval market square, crowds packed, not buying, just sharing their corporeal happiness, thick wool-covered trunk  to thick wool-covered trunk, faces ringed colorfully in scarfs of every dimension and texture, bells ringing out the end of a work week, wine raised to delight.


2 comments on “And . . .

  1. dmf says:

    The first thing I heard this morning
    was a rapid flapping sound, soft, insistent—

    wings against glass as it turned out
    downstairs when I saw the small bird
    rioting in the frame of a high window,
    trying to hurl itself through
    the enigma of glass into the spacious light.

    Then a noise in the throat of the cat
    who was hunkered on the rug
    told me how the bird had gotten inside,
    carried in the cold night
    through the flap of a basement door,
    and later released from the soft grip of teeth.

    On a chair, I trapped its pulsations
    in a shirt and got it to the door,
    so weightless it seemed
    to have vanished into the nest of cloth.

    But outside, when I uncupped my hands,
    it burst into its element,
    dipping over the dormant garden
    in a spasm of wingbeats
    then disappeared over a row of tall hemlocks.

    For the rest of the day,
    I could feel its wild thrumming
    against my palms as I wondered about
    the hours it must have spent
    pent in the shadows of that room,
    hidden in the spiky branches
    of our decorated tree, breathing there
    among the metallic angels, ceramic apples, stars of yarn,
    its eyes open, like mine as I lie in bed tonight
    picturing this rare, lucky sparrow
    tucked into a holly bush now,
    a light snow tumbling through the windless dark.

    “Christmas Sparrow” by Billy Collins

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