poem by Festival Poet Dave Morrison

Black Crow



Black crow.

Black crow by a white fence.

Black crow by a white fence on Mechanic Street, a Wednesday afternoon near the end of August, the crow so black, so black it looks like someone cut a crow shape out of the day with scissors and the Universe is showing through, made more black by the white bars of the fence and the grass made electric in the blast of the slanting sun, black crow stands absolutely still by the side of the road, pickup goes by, scooter goes by, Buick losing paint goes by, black crow is searching while trying to appear nonchalant, disdainful even, anything but desperate while his belly grinds on itself, there must be something by the side of the road, car-jetsam, animal or bird or bug too slow to cross, there must be something to justify crow's obsessive curiosity – crow doesn't like the traffic but will abide it, and uneasy truce – the traffic gives him squirrels and cats and possums and stupid birds, and gristle and bun and milkshake, but in his crow heart he doesn't want to be on Mechanic Street, but by the water, riding a thermal like a hawk, or even diving like a crazy osprey, or standing on the top of a tall mast in the sun like a carved God.

Could crow keep his balance on top of the mast under full sail? That would be glorious, feeling as if he were dragging the great wooden fish beneath him, until the land fell away and the ship was the only solid thing and he was at its highest point, shiny black King in the belly of a cloud, obsidian star, carved coal angel, heaven above, earth below.



Black crow.

Black crow by a white fence.

Black crow by a white fence on Mechanic Street, hungry, dreaming.

Poem by Belfast Poet Laureate and Committee Member Linda Buckmaster

Webcam Osprey

“Osprey has laid an egg!”

Electronic marquee outside a restaurant

Is there no dignity left? Bad enough they

have watched me all winter: hunkering down

in the cold and wind, surveying my flat stretch

of tidewater where I know the rhythms of each run, building

the nest for our family. (How lucky the camera can’t follow the flight

of love, the moment we seal our future.) And now, just

in time for tourist season, my body unwittingly becomes

a performer while they sit at the bar

or table, even those without a water view, waiting

for their lobster, the staff laconic in the slow

early spring season and all watching

my sacred offering, an event

they can talk about

on their cell phones or perhaps even

send a picture of the picture on the screen

above the decorator fishing net.

And when the little one finally breaks

through to this world, a moment that should be

ours, only ours, how will I explain the world

he is breaking into? How can I tell him -- free-born spirit expecting

his birthright -- that he is already captured?

(Previously published in Off the Coast.)

Poem by Festival Poet Ellen Goldsmith

AWAY

Crows caw, the rumble

of a plane overhead,

bird sound and bee buzz.

I came here to read,

uninterrupted by phone,

dusty tables, unmade beds.

There is nothing I need

to do for the cove. I can

leave the grasses as they are.

The water comes and goes.

The wind makes its own decisions.

published in Wolf Moon Journal, Fall 2009