SPIRITUAL AVIARY for the Year

Vol. III

by

Jane Beal, PhD

Green Wall Press

Chicago * Denver * San Francisco

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SPIRITUAL AVIARY for the Year

Vol. III

by

Jane Beal, PhD

Green Wall Press Chicago * Denver * San Francisco

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SPIRITUAL AVIARY Copyright @ 2016 by Jane Beal

All rights reserved Acknowledgements: Many of the poems in this collection first appeared on my blog, Bird-Watcher’s Diary (birdwatchersdiary.wordpress.com). Thanks to editor John Han, “A White Chicken” will appear in Integrité: A Journal of Faith and Learning (forthcoming, 2016). “Mockingbird in Love” appears in Chantwood Magazine (Spring 2106). The photograph on the front cover is of Don Gialanella’s “Dream Sparrow.” I am thankful for my bird-watching family: my mom, Barbara; my stepfather, Rudy; my sister, Alice; my brother, Andrew, and his wife, my friend, Debbie, who have shared my adventures with me. I am thankful for my neighbors, Sadie and her daughter, Bridget; Kati, Del, and their children Taylor and Emma; and Jane Cherry and her grandsons, Brayden and Whalen. These wonderful people appear in the poems in this book. I am thankful for friends, like those in my Epiphany Artists group, including Josh Anway and Zanne Dailey, both of whom made possible the inspiration of certain poems in this collection. I am also thankful for Laura Tabbut, a member of RezArtists group, who came from Chicago to visit me in California and with whom I noticed a striking Black Phoebe at the UC Davis bee lab. My friend Sally Shurter was with me when I saw the mockingbird at the Huntington Library and Botanical Gardens in San Marino. Three poems honor mothers, Amy Bonroy, Cameron Clay, and Debbie Beal, whom I attended in childbirth this spring. One poem is for my uncle, Darren Beal, who passed away on April 15th. Don Gialanella’s seven-foot tall, steel sculpture, “Dream Sparrow,” inspired a poem or two as did my visits to Austin, Texas; Kalamazoo, Michigan; and San Marino and Lompoc, California. Most of the poems included here, however, were inspired by local birdwatching in Davis and Benicia, California. The final poem in this collection is for my friend, Dr. G. Thomas LaVanchy. As ever, my beloved miniature dachshund, Joyful, was with me while bird-watching and for many of the specific bird sightings recorded in this poetry collection. I praise God for making this beautiful world and placing me in it so I can witness his glory … and sing about it!

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DEDICATION

In loving memory of my uncle,

Darren Michael Beal:

teacher, musician, friend

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TABLE OF CONTENTS SUMMER Benicia and Davis, California Morning Haiku … 14 Doves in the Trellis … 15 Duckling … 16

Doves Descending … 17 A Hummingbird for Josh … 18 Victory … 20 Identifying a Green Heron … 21 Double-Crested Cormorant … 22 Doves on the Rooftop … 23 Baby Birds in the Pomelo Tree … 24 Mother Scrub Jay … 25 Fledgling Scrub Jay … 26 Three Barn Owls … 27 Three Vultures … 28 Summer Scrub Jays … 29 FALL Davis, California

The First Geese of Fall … 32 A Curious Hawk … 34 Hummingbird Spiraling … 36 Songbirds … 37 Scrub Jay on the Roof … 38 Trifecta … 39

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Astonishing Symphony … 40 While Walking … 41 Telling Sadie about the Birds … 42 Black Phoebe in the Sun … 43 A Tiny Kinglet … 44 Anna’s Hummingbird … 45 The Hummingbird Angel … 46 Return of the Yellow-Rumped Warbler … 47 Animal Charades … 48 Two Days before Christmas … 49 The Birds of Winter … 51 I Heard the Mockingbird … 52 WINTER Davis and San Marino, California and Austin, Texas Blue Birds and Yellow-Rumped Warblers … 56 A Great-Tailed Grackle Goes Dancing … 57 A White Chicken … 58 Black Phoebe behind the Bee Haven … 59 One Bird Alone … 60 A Dove on the Path … 61 Black Phoebe on a Lamp … 62 Lover … 63 Warbling … 64 February Robins … 65 Cooper’s Hawk … 66 Mockingbird at the Huntington … 67

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Turkeys in the Intersection … 68 Seagulls on Valentine’s Day … 69 The Birds of February … 70 Losing the Lesser Goldfinches … 71 Mallard Ducks in the Courtyard … 72 Hummingbird in the Pomelo Tree … 73 I Hear the Starlings Singing … 74 Waxwing Annunciation … 75 Three Bright Birds in a N. Carolina Tree … 76 SPRING Davis and Lompoc, California and Kalamazoo, Michigan The Bird Was in Her Heart … 78 The Midwife Sees a Barn Owl … 79 Blackbirds in a Green Tree … 80 The Mockingbird in Love … 81 An Irritated Hawk … 82 Purple Finches in April … 83 The Day after my Uncle Died … 84 Like a Leaf … 85 Black-Chinned Hummingbird at Evening … 86 Rivals … 87 On Mother’s Day, the Hummingbird … 88 On a Rainy Day in Springtime … 89 Birds Hidden in Spring … 90 Fledgling Scrub Jays … 91 Hummingbird through the Window … 92

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Lonely … 93 Black Phoebe through my Window … 94 Guardian Angels … 95 The Dream Sparrow … 96 Our Sparrows … 97 Fighting Crows … 98 Two Dead Birds … 99 Afternoon Bird Checklist … 101 The Blessing … 102 In Memoriam … 104 About the Poet … 106

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SPIRITUAL AVIARY

for the Year __

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SUMMER __

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MORNING HAIKU Open window cawing crow – awakening 6/23

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DOVES IN THE TRELLIS This year, the mourning doves didn’t nest in the woodpile. Startled away, they found a new home in the green leaves and wisteria vines climbing the garden-trellis. There they laid their twin eggs and raised their family to fly the summer-sky. 6/22

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DUCKLING I don’t know what the man was thinking, but maybe he was in a hurry, on his way to work, distracted – he had been fighting with his wife for months. His truck hit a mallard hen in the middle of the road, and she died, instantly, crushed beneath the wheels. That’s when he saw a lone duckling suddenly made motherless by this accident. So he collected the tiny bird, and brought it home to his wife, and she and their children have been caring for the orphan who has a new life now: a blue bin for a home, with wood-shavings and a heat lamp, two curious children for friends, and a bathtub for swimming in the afternoon. Just yesterday, he was paddling around in the water – overjoyed to be alive! 6/22

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DOVES DESCENDING I was swimming alone in the pool when the sun was going down and I looked up to the rooftops and saw two doves descending. 6/20

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A HUMMINGBIRD FOR JOSH I was telling my mother about you, about your music and your faith – I was thinking about your red hair and the expressions I have seen on your face, the way you listen carefully, like a musician listens, not just to the words, but the tones, to the meaning in the melody while imagining where your own harmony could enter into the song, but not playing it, not singing it yet, because a good musician thinks about timing, and feels when the rhythm is right before creating something out of nothing, the spiritual jazz of the heart, before making the sound wave that rolls onto the shore of someone else’s ear and through her, into the black space of eternity, where light and song meet, enraptured with one another, union of opposites,

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fingers touching guitar-strings, breath breathed across the mouth of the flute, something so intimate: light and sound, fingers and breath, the present and the future, the now and the not yet, the bride and the bridegroom, the mother and the father, the being still and the moving, the conception of a new life beginning in gentleness like the silence before the song that is stirred up to become the first sound, found in the musicians’ clothes, rustling, because the players are picking up their instruments in their own hands trying out a chord, testing out a note, getting ready for music that will change them and everything else in eternity. While I was telling my mother about you, Josh, a hummingbird was chittering on a tree branch. 6/22

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VICTORY I wrote the first of the thousand victory psalms today! 6/23

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IDENTIFYING A GREEN HERON You sailed past my sight, Green Heron, on a river of air and light – I noticed your brownish head, darker wings, and yellow feet stretched out behind you in flight. I pointed you out to the little boy who was with me as you disappeared from view in the green-leafed summer-trees reflected in the dark waters of Putah creek. 6/24

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DOUBLE-CREASTED CORMORANT It seems you wanted us to see you. You came up from the water to stand on the green grass and stretch out your wings in the sunlight. You came closer and closer! Taylor, a small, blond-haired boy hanging on a tree-branch jumped down, and cautioned me to be quiet (as I had cautioned him about the ducklings earlier) and not to come too near, but we did, we came closer until we could photograph you your black wings extended like a messenger in a black cloak your yellow beak open with a word of fear or warning until Taylor, exasperated, chased you back into the water! 6/24

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DOVES ON THE ROOFTOP I wasn’t in the water this time – I was just standing on green grass in the heat of summer, a fence between me and the pool when I looked up, and I saw you, two doves, feathering one another with your wings, about to conceive your next set of twins. Where will you hide the new nest to nurture your little ones in? 6/30

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BABY BIRDS IN THE POMELO TREE I can hear you, cheeping loudly. I see your parents flying in and out of the green leaves, their blue-gray wings flashing in the summer sunlight. So quickly they come and go! You are hungry. They must feed you. My heart is hungry. God must feed me. 7/1

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MOTHER SCRUB JAY You fly out of your pomelo tree to the roof to watch me walking by. Your nestlings continue squawking, hungry no matter how much you feed them. You fly out again to watch Bailey, the gray cat, stalking around the trunk of your tree: too close for comfort. You are surprisingly quiet, as you look down at the cat, then sharply up at me. I continue walking toward my door, but I realize that now I can hear nothing from the nest hidden in your pomelo tree. 7/9

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FLEDGLING SCRUB JAY I was on the phone when I heard a noise at the window, turned my head and saw you, fledgling scrub jay, still gray, pecking on the glass window as if to say hello. I went outside, as you flopped about in midair, your short, stubby wings still apt to their purpose, and I watched you tumble into a green bush, then hop and hide in its branches, as I spoke to you, and hoped I wasn’t scaring you, and encouraged you to try, try again to fly, little fledgling – now where are your parents? I looked, there they were, one flying left to distract me, the other flying right to catch your eye – now you’re up on the window screen, clinging, looking over your shoulder at your father, and you decide to make another daring leap through the summer air, back into the pomelo tree, and you make it! I’m happy as I watch you clamber and climb and occasionally flutter into the higher branches, listening, like I am, to your squawking sister who, still in the nest, wants to know why you left her, but, of course, it was for the obvious reason. 7/11

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THREE BARN OWLS I heard the bat and looked up: a white owl was chasing it through the blue night air until a sudden silence fell. I watched as the bird landed in a tall, green tree. Then, suddenly, three white owls swooped out from the branches into the dark. The sliver of the summer moon was then shining over the road: I kept walking. 7/20

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THREE VULTURES I was sitting beside my mother, talking: another working year gone, another summer of uncertainty come. Three vultures went wheeling above our heads. They swooped low and close, and we concluded something nearby had died – maybe in the next yard over. But the birds flew off, leaving us alone. We were, after all, still alive. 7/24

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SUMMER SCRUB JAYS Every afternoon, the sweltering heat rises. The birds do not come out to play – except for the bright-blue scrub jay, sailing from green tree to green tree, sometimes pausing on my fence, watching me like a police detective.

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FALL

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THE FIRST GEESE OF FALL I woke up early, but it was still dark. We have passed the summer solstice. The light is waning as we approach a change in seasons. I could hear birds calling outside, and I opened my sliding glass door to stand on the patio, and as I listened the shadows of many geese, the first geese of fall, flew past the tree line as the sun was rising. In a blue sky growing lighter, they had turned their heads toward home, calling to one another, calling to God. And I remembered the silent girl, sewing for her brothers, working hard to save them, though no one knew what she was doing. For seven years, she labored, until the day when they appeared before her, and she cast their clothes over them so they were transformed from flying birds into true men, free of the curse that bound them – and only one brother was a half-creature, with one arm still a wing

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for she could not finish the final sleeve before Time was cut short, and they arrived, flying wildly before her as the king her husband watched his silent girl dancing with the birds of the air, casting her cloaks over them, restoring their dignity, hiding their shame, falling into their arms and kissing their faces as they became free, and came back to her, the one who had lost them so long ago. 9/9

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A CURIOUS HAWK I was writing a letter when sudden movement caught my eye: a curious hawk landed on the corner of the roof outside my window and he was looking in, directly at me, through the white blinds. I studied him quickly not sure how long he would stay: a red-tailed hawk, with a light crown, not overly large. But the blue-jays in the pomelo tree were outraged by his presence. I knew the time would be short, and I was afraid to look at him lest eye-contact startle him away.

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But I looked at him, and he looked at me through the glass. Then he turned his head, spread his wings and took flight. I can still see in my mind’s eye his speckled breast under which his heart was beating. 9/23

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HUMMINGBIRD SPIRALING He whizzes past ordinary and perches high in a tree, the late afternoon sunlight flashing brightly at his ruby-throat – then, noticing my eyes on him from the ground below, he takes flight suddenly spiraling into the September sky. Sept.

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SONGBIRDS Maybe because it is cooler now, the birds are out and about – golden-crowned sparrows in the brush by the river blackberry bush, the black phoebe perching on my fence. I hear you whistling and singing, I say your names under my breath. Only the mockingbird distracts me with his symphony, endless calling to my heart, my heart. Oct.

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SCRUB JAY ON THE ROOF The scrub jay – my bold, blue prince of the air – lands on the corner of my roof, and looks in at me through the window, like the hawk, from the other day, but even more briefly – then turns tail and hops away, leaving only the memory and the flash of white under-feathers where he once was. 10/5

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TRIFECTA The tule fog lifted by mid-afternoon, though the smell of a distant fire lingered in the air with the smoke. I took my dog with me to go get the mail. By the boxes, I turned and looked up, and there you were, all three of you, on the tall, chain-link fence! Scrub Jay to my left, Black Phoebe perched in the middle, and to my right, the Mockingbird, suddenly soaring, white feathers flared out in gray wings, as he swooped past the pool to a green tree on the edge. Trifecta of wonder, stay near me forever. 10/26

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ASTONISHING SYMPHONY Someone was talking. He had sent the little girl away. I was supposed to be listening, but a mockingbird was singing, hidden in the thick green leaves, and his astonishing symphony captured my heart in an instant for all time. 10/26

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WHILE WALKING Something was singing in the trees. I couldn’t see it, but I could hear it like a voice from another world. 11/3

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TELLING SADIE ABOUT THE BIRDS Over pumpkin muffins and tea, while sitting at the table with my neighbor, I find myself telling her the names of the birds I know that live in our apartment complex: the raucous, bright-blue scrub-jays, the mockingbirds with their wild trills, the blackly cawing crows, the double-chirruping phoebe, the hummingbirds that chitter as they fly in the sunlit sky, like tiny jewels, the gobbling turkey, who hastens across the grounds, the hawks that sometimes hunt the dawn, waiting silent in the trees or rushing with the wind over us, over the earth, searching, and then screaming out, the iridescent pigeons, startled up to the rooftops, the gently cooing doves, peacefully nestled above the pool – and then Sadie tells me about her little daughter, Bridget, who has autism, and who has taught her, she says, how to love. She adds, with bright hope in her eyes, that she has been waiting to hear her speak, using words, for more than five years. 11/4

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BLACK PHOEBE IN THE SUN I was walking down a path in the morning, and my dog was trotting happily ahead of me, when I looked to my right, and I saw her, a black phoebe perched on a branch jutting out over the field. She was facing the sun, bathing in its light, watching and worshipping the glorious God who made this bright, new day. 11/6

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A TINY KINGLET So tiny hopping from branch to branch eyeing me like hope or future happiness 12/9

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ANNA’S HUMMINGBIRD I heard you before I saw you, and then I turned in the tule fog toward the Tree where you bowed your head to me three times, showing me your splendid, red crown before you flew off faster than I could see, flitting ahead, toward mystery. Even though my heart is heavy with sorrow, your tiny presence gives me this moment of joy. 12/9

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THE HUMMINGBIRD ANGEL I stood at the glass doors, looking out at a gray day. The white Christmas lights were twinkling on the other side when a bright hummingbird suddenly appeared! He hovered there, in mid-air, looking in at me in my living-room. In the space between you and me – a prayer in the cold, a dream of blue and gold, the memory of a song, a yearning like a kiss in a dream a lost dream. Dec

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THE RETURN OF THE YELLOW-RUMPED WARBLER I saw you for the first time last January, on the first bright, cold day of the New Year – how boldly you swooped in front of me! Today, I see you again, two weeks early, back before Christmas Day. How bright that sunny spot on your tail! – like the joy of Light is following you everywhere you go even though you cannot turn and see it. 12/16

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ANIMAL CHARADES We were playing animal charades, the twin boys, their grandmother, and me. Brayden was a Red Panda. Whalen was a Fox. Their grandmother was a grandmother. My right hand darted about in mid-air, forefinger the bill, thumb and pinkie the furious wings, and then I chittered, and they guessed! Mine was the hummingbird charade. Later, my two hands were butterflies, and later still, an elephant who never forgets. 12/16

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TWO DAYS BEFORE CHRISTMAS I went outside early in the morning while it was still dark. I heard the geese calling overhead, and I looked up. I could see their white under-bellies glimmering in jagged lines as they flew between distant stars. Where are you going? Where have you have been? I remember a lake in the high, wild country east of the Rocky Mountains, near Denver, and how so many of you settled there with ducks and grebes and egrets, with the memory of swans and a Great Blue Heron, with strange flickers sailing across green park lawns from tree to tree. Where are you going? Where have you have been? Did you come to my eyes from Colorado, from mountain peaks and snow that evaporates in sudden sunlight? Did you come to me from a story? I remember swans-like-geese in an African folktale. I remember a lover who cared to learn his beloved’s mother tongue.

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Where are you going? Where have you have been? Speak my language, teach me your song, let me understand the words declared in mid-air, between heaven and earth, where stars shine brightly in the cold. I have been listening all this time. The hourglass is turned upside down in my heart, and the salt is in your wings. 12/23

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THE BIRDS OF WINTER I walk outside, to a chill in the air – I look up in the silence and see rock doves in a gathering, pulling against the sky. They are so near, I can hear the music of their wings. I drive under a tall street lamp, as the sun is going down – I see a hawk, fixed and attentive, staring across a green field. I know, even in stillness, she is hunting with hungry eyes that open wider as the light fades. I cross over the causeway – all the birds of winter fly across the sky: geese over the sunset marsh, plowing the air, a Great Blue Heron winging her way alone, first one Great White Egret, then another. Never without an angel, never without a song, never alone in an orange twilight or in the dark before dawn – who has seen what I have seen, or known this mystery? 12/26

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I HEARD THE MOCKINGBIRD I heard the mockingbird before he heard me – he was singing a cheap song. I stopped in my tracks, overshadowed by trees, while he was surrounded by light. I sang to him all of a sudden, and he fell silent, listening. He cocked his head, and looked at me, for all the world like he would learn my tune. I waited to hear him answer me, I dared to step forward into the sun, though I feared he would fly away. He did, of course, because nearness can be unbearable to a wild bird who hears an unknown song he has never heard before, and will never hear again, unless he remembers and repeats my melody, unless he remembers and returns to stand on a branch, before my face, and look into my eyes so that I cannot resist singing a song for him again – a song about starlight and pine trees, two of them, standing beside one another, embracing, a song about a tiny baby girl who turned into Time, sliding from her mother’s womb into the wide world,

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a song about going down to the river to pray, and being washed in the water of Life. The mockingbird heard my song, he heard me, but still, he flew away to another tree, another branch, and I walked on, for the morning could not last, and even the whole day is not very long. 12/28

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BLUE BIRDS AND YELLOW-RUMPED WARBLERS ON NEW YEAR’S DAY I stopped by the same tree where I saw the Yellow-Rumped Warbler for the first time last year on New Year’s Day. The warblers are back, and so are the blue birds! They’re playing together like friends; they’re singing New Year songs. I notice two male blue birds and one female between them. Then the game changes, and there are two females, grayer and more subdued, and one bright blue male between them. Who will choose whom? How they play! How long will they stay? Soon, today will be yesterday. Sometimes it feels like everything my heart desires is going away. 1/1

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A GREAT-TAILED GRACKLE GOES DANCING IN AUSTIN, TEXAS You had clearly left the river that flows through downtown Austin on the other side of the hotels. No need for the bridge, of course – you just flew to your favorite bake shop and plunked down where the music was playing. Through the speakers above you, that music came down like early morning sunlight, and you waddled in time to its rhythm: your brown-hooded head bobbing left and right, your feet dancing, side to side, your black wings tucked in as you tucked in to more sweet crumbs on the sidewalk: happy, honky-tonk, round and robust, a cute little fatty, a ladybird in a good mood – O, that golden eye, shining bright on one side of your light-hearted head! I take the memory of you, hustling to that music, home with me, sweet Texas pea, great-hearted grackle-ma’am, like a harmony woven into the melody. 1/10

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A WHITE CHICKEN There’s a big yellow house that borders the greenbelt path through Willowcreek, and those that live there keep chickens in their backyard, which is why I, and the man strolling with his baby, both thought that maybe you, white chicken, had flown the coop, conquered the fence, and found yourself happily on the other side. Here you were, pecking into the wet earth and fallen leaves, looking for a fine feast of worms, oblivious to us, the two watching you and wondering if you needed to go home, if you would want to return, if you knew anything about cats and the dangers that accompany them, and if you really belonged to our neighbor or if you just happened to here for some mysterious reason. I don’t really think of white chickens as angels, but Marc Chagall does: you were pure white on a wet January morning, vivid against the dark earth you traversed, like a sign, like a promise – innocent, apparently lost, but maybe not to yourself, maybe only to us, the two watching, not yet understanding what God was trying to tell us. 1/11

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BLACK PHOEBE BEHIND THE BEE HAVEN We went through the green gate. The bees were sleeping in their hives. The plants were giving off life-giving air, and the scent of them drifted into my hair. It might have been idyllic, but beyond the back pasture, the hogs were screaming. In the bee lab, we learned about the artificial insemination of honeybee queens – another terror. I looked out the window, and noticed white-crowned sparrows and golden-crowned sparrows, and you: the black phoebe beyond the bee haven, freely swooping in a circle of morning light. 1/18

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ONE BIRD ALONE I expect to see the Black Phoebe alone, standing on a stone in the park, but not a Cedar Waxwing, high in a tree. Where is your family? Where are the friends, the playmates and lovers, the berry-eaters, the bright-ones, who come in our short winters like sun-splinters in mist? How can you be here, now, Waxwing? How can you be only one bird alone? 1/24

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A DOVE ON THE PATH Mourning dove, are you another bird alone? I could not be more surprised. I look around for your lover but I don’t see him, and I wonder why, peering at you as you notice me, but aren’t startled, and instead wade deeper into the fading grass under the low branches of a twiggy tree. I want to comfort you like the sight of you comforts my soul. My Joy is running ahead on the path. She stops and looks back. I know I cannot stay and wait for your mate to come to you. So I step forward, and as I do, your lover bursts into the sky! Flying, flying, beautiful dove! Up from the ground, into the light! I glance back at you, still gazing at me, realizing that birds who can fly

are never separated, even if one is grounded and the other is in the sky.

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BLACK PHOEBE ON A LAMP Did you hear my heart crying? Here you come, to make me look, to brighten my eyes with the joy of you as I look out the window above my kitchen sink and see you perched on top of a great glass ball, looking in at me where I stand from where you stand on a lamp unlit in the daytime – a perfect place to begin hunting before night falls. 1/25

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LOVER Through the green leaves of the lemon tree, and its branches heavy with bright, shining fruit, I see you, mighty-blue Scrub Jay, perched on the fence and looking back at me. I am not a stranger! You know me, lover. Transform before me, and be that spirit I know so well. I open my arms, like I open my eyes, and I accept you, friend, into my embrace, as if all the geography of earth had never separated us and was entirely without power over our hearts. 1/25

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WARBLING Early morning light! Yellow-rumped warblers singing: life in a green field. 2/1

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FEBRUARY ROBINS Winter doesn’t last very long around here. I almost want to shout, “Spring has sprung!” Why? Because I was walking down by Willow Creek, and tiny white flowers have appeared on the naked trees. I saw one of them shining in the sunlight. Meanwhile, the robins are really flashing their red-breasts everywhere. 2/6

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COOPER’S HAWK I saw a hawk high up in the tree – a large hawk, silent at first, with clear markings. I wondered if this one hunted mice or songbirds. Later, I knew she would soar through the air to seize her prey mid-flight. But this afternoon, she was not a silent hunter. She started calling and calling and would not stop her cry until it filled the riparian woodland with the sound of her presence and her preternatural desire. 2/6

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MOCKINGBIRD AT THE HUNTINGTON LIBRARY AND BOTANICAL GARDENS, SAN MARINO The poem flew right in front of my face: a mockingbird on an arc of light that sprang from a stone to a tree across a waterfall in a garden full of white flowers that became stars in my memory, shaped into constellations of joy. 2/13

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TURKEYS IN THE INTERSECTION Two black turkeys crossing the street! What are they doing? I hope they aren’t struck by some driver who doesn’t see them – but we all see them. We smile because it’s crazy that they are here, crossing the busiest intersection in town. People take out their cell phones and snap pictures, and I assume they upload them straight to Facebook, telling everyone what they are seeing this Sunday morning – this strange, for-the-birds, Valentine’s Day. 2/14

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SEAGULLS ON VALENTINE’S DAY Seagulls are soaring on wind growing wilder: the rainstorm is rolling in! 2/14

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THE BIRDS OF FEBRUARY I was walking the path by the dry stream-bed when I looked up and I saw her: a red-headed Northern Harrier in flight. What are you hunting? I turned the corner on my journey, and was suddenly surprised to see a ruddy Swainson’s Thrush make a dash across my path to the olive tree. Where is wisdom hidden? I returned home, only to set out again, with Joy by my side, and on our new circuit, we passed a bush full of twittering birds who were invisible until I looked closer. What have we here? What is lost can be found again. Follow the heartmusic. Feb.

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LOSING THE LESSER GOLDFINCHES I can’t remember what I was supposed to write about you: lost in the trees of an imperfect memory.

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MALLARD DUCKS IN THE COURTYARD Last night, I walked through the rose garden courtyard. A man was sitting on the bench. The woman standing next to him was smoking a cigarette. Before I reached the broken fountain, I noticed two mallard ducks. The green-headed male was watching as the brown-feathered hen dug in the dirt with her beak, looking for something she couldn’t find. 2/22

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HUMMINGBIRD IN THE POMELO TREE Is this hummingbird nesting in the bush below my window? I’ve seen her dart out many times, and upward, into the pomelo tree, her long, curved beak seeking the sweet juice of spring life. Feb.

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I HEAR THE STARLINGS SINGING I hear the starlings singing in the tree across the way: a flock of shining blackbirds praising the bright Sun’s ray. I hear the starlings singing! They are beautiful in song. They welcome the springtime – they welcome love at dawn. How precious to me, this chorus of hope and newness and joy – how sweet to me this hymn of praise on the day after the birth of a baby boy. Praise be, praise be! God strengthened the mother’s heart and gave me both of their lives. 2/28

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WAXWING ANNUNCIATION A song named Carol told me the cedar waxwings have returned! In Woodland, they are in full flock, consuming all the berries. In Willowcreek, I wait for them with hungry eyes. Come to me, waxwings! Come and let me see your beauty in the trees. 2/28

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THREE BRIGHT BIRDS IN A NORTH CAROLINA TREE Memories of the beautiful past are bittersweet. Still, the longing heart cannot help but recall them. She looked up one day, and saw three bright birds in a North Carolina tree: American Goldfinch, Northern Cardinal, Azure Bunting! How yellow, how red, how blue those birds now in the Tree of Memory: bright and shining forever bright and shining for you, for me. 2/28 for Jane Cherry

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SPRING __

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THE BIRD WAS IN HER HEART The bird was in her heart, frantically beating its wings. Those wings beat so fast, a woman watching thought the bird might die from fluttering so hard against the bird-cage of her ribs. But she didn’t die. She lived and gave birth to her son. She called his name Gabriel because a saint’s day is holy, and because the angel stood by and overshadowed us with his white wings. 2/27

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THE MIDWIFE SEES A BARN OWL In the dark and early hours of morning, you were illuminated by a street light: white ghost or white angel, herald away from the host, you presaged the birth of a little girl with your wings wide open before you were hidden in the eucalyptus tree on Saint Patrick’s Day. 3/17

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BLACKBIRDS IN A GREEN TREE for the Easter baby When labor slowed, the midwife and the mother went for a long walk. The sun was shining. It wasn’t hot or cold. A bluebird was standing on a street sign. The blackbirds were all together in a green tree, singing about spring. Who can read these omens? Elijah was born as the full moon faded from view near sunrise. 3/22

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THE MOCKINGBIRD IN LOVE He is singing the sweetest sparrow song for her. She is listening to him, not far away, on the same fence. When he tries to come closer, she squawks like a Northern Scrub Jay! He comes no closer. He waits. He begins his song again. Even when she flies away, he does not stop singing his love-song, so gentle, like pleading. 4/7

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AN IRRITATED HAWK When I rode by on my bike, the red-shouldered hawk swept away from the tree, letting out a squawk of irritation. I supposed I startled away the prey she wanted to eat. 4/15

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PURPLE FINCHES IN APRIL The purple finches were standing on the fence between the sentinel pines and a field full of flowers singing about their lovers and their babies and their nests. When I rode by on my bike, most of them sailed away on the air, but one red-head stayed and watched me as I rode by. He reminded me of you, lover, watching me. 4/15

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THE DAY AFTER MY UNCLE DIED On the morning after I found out that my uncle was killed in a car crash in Walla Walla, Washington, I went for a walk down the Street, and I saw a blue scrub jay perched on the second story balcony railing of an apartment complex with a long twig in her mouth, preparing to the build a nest for the new life that is to come. 4/19

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LIKE A LEAF Little, green hummingbird like a leaf clinging to the pomelo tree’s twiggy branch two days in a row: one sunny, one rainy. What are you looking for from this perch and what do you find when you fly away? To me, you are a sign of love: God’s love in this season of profound change. 4/21 & 4/22

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BLACK CHINNED HUMMINGBIRD AT EVENING Black-chinned hummingbird hovering over the bright, red feeder, dipping your bill to the bright yellow flower, your wings a blur, your tail balancing your delicate body in midair – is the man I met again after twenty years as happy as you are to see me? 4/23

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RIVALS Two male mockingbirds are squabbling on the roof – unaware that I am watching them. May

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ON MOTHER’S DAY, THE HUMMINGBIRD On Mother’s Day, the hummingbird chitters incessantly outside my window – diving down into the bush with jade-green leaves to feed the hidden babies in a tiny nest. 5/8

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ON A RAINY DAY IN SPRING Down from the dark gray sky comes a black crow sailing into a field of yellow mustard flowers. 5/8

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BIRDS HIDDEN IN SPRINGTIME There are certain birds I hear in Michigan every year, but I never see them because they are hidden in trees that have fully-fledged, green-leafed, into Spring. O Lord, O Lord, more of your mysteries – O Lord, O Lord, more of your wonders and marvels, I pray. 5/14

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FLEDGLING SCRUB JAYS ON CAMPUS I could hear your voices! I watched your parent darting back and forth, from bush to tree, and I wondered if you were in your nest. I peered into the thick, green leaves in the bush, and lo and behold! You two were fledglings ready for your first flight. One of you looked directly into my eyes. 5/16

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HUMMINGBIRD THROUGH THE WINDOW In the middle of a hard meeting, I suddenly look out of the window, where the Light is: a tiny green hummingbird is sucking out the nectar of Life from the inside of a bright, red amaryllis four times its size. This is God’s doing, and it is marvelous in our eyes. 5/19

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LONELY I woke up in the middle of the night, and I could hear the mockingbird singing endlessly outside my room – so lonely, neither of us could sleep. 5/20

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BLACK PHOEBE THROUGH MY WINDOW Yesterday, the black phoebe perched on a stick, under a bridge, above the green-covered waters of a pond – this afternoon, after the rain, she finds a place at the corner of the rooftop where I see her through my window keeping her balance with one wing over the edge of a wooden shingle, and dipping her beak to drink from the rain-gutter. 5/21

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GUARDIAN ANGELS I look up, and I realize all six doves on the rooftop are watching me walk my injured dog. 5/22

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THE DREAM SPARROW after Don Gialanella I, too, have dreamed of a sparrow: larger than my life, shot through with light, appearing before me as the Shekinah-glory. I flew upon his back, through space, toward the earth and heard the voice of God: This is my world, and you are my midwife. And I believed. Now you have called my name from across the country: artist, stranger. You, too, dreamed of a bird – a steam-punk sparrow – made of steel and wheels and gears. You place in the image you have made a sliver of green moon, next to his sparrow-heart, and then hide it under another layer of imagination. I know what you are doing. I, too, have hidden the moon. I, too, have made it green with spring-life and hope and something else: unanswered desire. When I think of it, I see my paper-heart flutters like bird-wings. I wonder if I could touch this steam-punk sparrow so that the metal would reverberate with sound and make a song:

color spills across the country, the wind sighs: we’ve crossed the border of the dream-country

into another world 5/22

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OUR SPARROWS Is my sparrow talking to your sparrow? Stretching out on the floor, I look up at the wall: two gold sparrows, separated by Africa, look at each other. Their green leaves and dark branches want to entwine across the distance, like Baucis and Philemon, after they died. Those sparrows were a gift to me from a mother whose child I helped to welcome into the world: with them, she prophesied. Are you the fulfillment of an Artist’s dream? Yes, for a moment, my sparrow is talking to your sparrow. 5/22

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FIGHTING CROWS The noise was unbelievable. I dashed to the window in time to see two black crows fighting wildly on the grass and blue scrub jays screaming around them -- five or six –

and the mockingbirds swooping in, too – an avian mosh pit! I opened my window and firmly told them to stop – they all scattered. Two scrub jay escapees eyed me from the opposite roof with respect. Of course: they grew up in my pomelo tree and know who lives on the other side of this window.

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TWO DEAD BIRDS First Bird I could tell what it was, but not what it had been – all the easy identification markers were completely gone. I am not an ornithologist of bird skeletons. This one was like one preserved in stone from another age – but without the stone. It lay on the earth, nourishing flies.

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Second Bird Only a few more steps, and here, already, another dead bird! This one was a young fledgling, a blue-gray Northern Scrub Jay. I was so surprised! Blue jays are so bold, I thought they all lived. But not this one – small and precious, like I could hold her in my cupped hands and remember being a child on a rooftop in Martinez. But already the ants had found this newly-fallen fledging and invaded the intimate space of her feathers. 5/27

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AFTERNOON BIRD CHECKLIST Hummingbird, Mockingbird, Dove – Great White Heron soaring high in the sky – black Crow. 5/30

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THE BLESSING At the end, there may not be much to say. The scrub jay swoops under the foliage, brakes in midair, lands on the branch. What can I say to him? I admire his agility. The American Kestrel hovers over a field of grass fading in the sun. What can I say to him? I know he is hunting. Now you have told me, mon ami, that you are getting married to someone else in the fall. What can I say to you? May your new life be blessed. 5/31

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IN MEMORIAM

In loving memory of Darren Michael Beal 31 January 1961 – 15 April 2016

Darren Michael Beal was killed in a single-car accident when his vehicle hit an embankment on Five Mile Road in Walla Walla, Washington on Friday, April 15, 2016 about 7 PM in the evening. He was 55 years old. His German Shepherd, Cassie, who was with him at the time, was unharmed and taken in by the Blue Mountain Humane Society. Darren was born in Minot, North Dakota on January 31, 1961. His parents, Hobart and Ellen Marie Beal, had retired from the U.S. Army after distinguished service during World War II. He was their youngest child, the fourth born, after his sister Sandra (b. 1944), sister Cheryl (b. 1950), and brother Brian (b. 1952). He moved with his family to Walla Walla, Washington, where he graduated from Walla Walla High School in 1979. Darren went on to study English and Spanish at Washington State University. He was with the love of his life, Caitlyn Burgess, when his father passed away in 1987. He received his B.A. in 1988, and he was serving with AmeriCorps in 1998. He also taught courses in English as a second language at Walla Walla Community College. He was deeply grieved when his mother passed away in 1999. At the time of his death, he was working as a caregiver at Valley Residential Services in Walla Walla, providing support to people with developmental disabilities. Although not interested in organized religion, Darren admired Jesus and Buddha, and he believed in the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto

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you.” He was politically independent, liberal, and progressive. He was against war and for peace. He valued his Native American heritage as well. He was a part of WolfConnection, and active in the defense of the life of wolves, and he cherished his canine companions, especially his German Shepherds, Jezzi and Cassie. He wrote stories and music, and he played the guitar. He was a fan of the Beatles and greatly enjoyed books, movies, and music of many kinds. He is survived by his sisters, brother, and many nieces, nephews, and extended family members, as well as a beloved circle of friends.

Wisdom from the Buddha

Thousands of candles can be lighted from a single candle,

and the life of the candle will not be shortened.

Happiness never decreases by being shared.

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ABOUT THE POET

Dr. Jane Beal is a poet and professional writer, educator, and midwife. Born and raised in northern California, she received her BA (Sonoma State University), MA (Sonoma State University), and PhD (UC Davis) in English literature with specializations in medieval literature, classical mythology, and biblical literature. She has taught at Wheaton College and Colorado Christian University and served families in childbirth in the Chicago, Denver and San Francisco metro areas as well as internationally in Uganda and the Philippine Islands. She now teaches at the University of California, Davis.

In addition to Spiritual Aviary for the Year, Vol. III, she is the author of other poetry collections: Sanctuary, Made in the Image, Magical Poems, Tidepools, Love-Song, Butterflies, Epiphany: Birth Poems, A Pure Heart, Sunflower Songs, The Roots of Apples and Rising as well as her Birdwatcher Trilogy, The Bird-Watcher’s Diary Entries, Wild Birdsong and Jazz Birding and Spiritual Aviary for the Year, Volumes I and II. She has made three recording projects combining poetry and music, Songs from the Secret Life, Love-Song, and, with her brother, saxophonist and composer Andrew Beal, The Jazz Bird. She also writes fiction, creative non-fiction, and academic studies of literature and collegiate pedagogy. To learn more, visit http://sanctuarypoet.net and http://birdwatchersdiary.wordpress.com.

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He told them another parable:

The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his field.

Though it is the smallest of all seeds, yet when it grows, it is the largest of garden plants and becomes a tree,

so that the birds come and perch in its branches.

Matthew 13:31-32