south to Florida
he was driving down, now
the eastern coast,
it was brown beige
that weakened blue, it was early spring
the colors were familiar.
Well, then the sprawl, let's say
this industrial northern clime,
the increasing suburban mall, mania
and cycle of dump
want and desire
remembering, his first glimpses,
the muddy Susquehanna’s
flooded banks, the Yellow Breeches Creek,
emptying into,
this mud of a life's under--
strewn, bottles of strange color, bound
in loops of film, hanging
from flood fallen trees,
decorated in strands of river weed,
belly of six-pack loop and spots
of torn flesh flipping, strange bloated balloons
rust curling and smell of river mud
from iridescent ooze
the bugs were still here, first
biting their butts,
their always omnipresent
intolerable presence
they kept him moving like
the city anxiety, scratching
a prodding rent check and
landlord’s face on the street,
he was driving this cement corridor
of McDonalds,
Color Tile, Jiffy Lube,
in cinematic fashion, bare trees flashing light
mile after mile
slowing to secondary roads
stopping to remove a winter’s coat
giving way to the balmy aired
swamp, of palm and pine
the bungalow homes now strewn this a way
and bougainvillea
he kept on
wondering of the wonderfully magical
lightness, the warm
but soft wind
the hurricane-like feel
on this flat pine lined road over humps
of peat and weed
orange flowers spilling a
spice spiked moment
Audubon discovered this all in 1850,
these birds in 1950 were well on their way out,
buckets of rain
this dramatic pastel weather, with grey blue sky
emerging from this rawer wind, smelling the sea
these palms
waving one on to warmer, south
the ruffling wind
These emblems, the sunsets,
flamingos, and palms
flash past as billboards
I want at least to see an alligator, he thought
already passing up
Alligator Alley or Heaven
or something like that--
it’s sudden
arriving to this mint greenest bay
surrounded by grass filled fields
the lagoon
is speckled with white herons in trees
The sky quickens its darkening,
looking up into silhouetted fronds
he almost ducked at the swoosh
of birds swooping across low
in the sky, squadron after another
and again
and again for one half hour flying
to roost on islands of the warm
Gulf stream--
a tent in the stars, a title for a painting
he remembered
the evening’s crescent
moon marking his entry
into this rediscovered mystery
“Man, these bugs--” peaking out at a last
twinkle as sleep rushed over
stars the milky way
as the morning’s glow washed
the lightening palms
the flurry of birds in waves
it begins again, a kind of morning rush hour
traffic in squadron after wave
ibis, heron, spoon bill
stars disappear and
the sun is slow above a misty horizon
white sand glaring on
greenest ever-- present palms,
turquoise water against this arriving blue
Well, I’m looking for a Roseate Spoonbill!
He’d been painting and
drawing the herons
watching the play of light
plunge, splash,
he heard the spoonbill that strangest of birds
an almost absurd flavor to this quest!
The tourists were everywhere pointing--
before, wow, YES, I see it, the Hawk, swoop
--up with-- a Snake?
dangling from its talons
well, the distance from that reality to symbol
repeated telling
he was always looking for something
to happen
he was standing there drawing
the little scooter ducks and what are they call-- the
coots-- when
My God, right there
it was
a kind of annunciation
a Painted Bunting,
amazing so amazing,
he asked it what it came for, it twitted unafraid
here, and there
showing itself off in the sun
for the moment and
then it was gone-- he saw
it here and there in
the shadows, but it was just that moment
his hands were bitten into hamburger,
he scratched until they were raw
one becomes used to it
he was used to it now,
what disease, he thought
was he going to get from this wildness
his straw hat and white oxford cotton
reflecting the sun and-- bugs,
that pastoral scene, happily painting at Eco Pond,
or was it Echo--
back to camp, the sunset with the returning,
birds, ibis, hundreds
and hundreds, amazing, then
one lone Spoon bill, he thought
he spotted it but before he could get closer
it took off
and he watched it soar in the blue sky round and
round, way up almost out of sight
showing itself off spinning
around looking through glass
he was dizzied and he watched
as the palms
turned blue and purple to black
the stars standing out against
the waving palm, he thought
he could stay there forever,
he was only two days journey away
and a
paradise
well, it is backed up, a jam of sorts
he was sleeping here, and over there
an eagle on the electrical tower
and the strange tiny deer in proximity to
a heron, right there, and pelicans everywhere
all squeezed onto this little key
they called it Bahia Honda, a heron dives
on a mullet, the splash he drew
with pencil stub
and the palms, drawing
like dream flutter
surrounded by rainbow--
blue water.
and white sparking sand,
the silent tide leaves
and exposes, a sand flat
silver palms that leave their fronds
scattered and in the shade
they look as bones
of ash like refuse scattered like discarded clothes
and left,
where is that woman
walking--
who is she?, what genius
is she beyond?
in this air of imagination
the suburban wildlife is forced to live this tourists life
which magazine has already sold the place to--
YES, his ridiculous spoon bill
painted on the side of that building,
the certain abandon he felt
he was squinting through steamy
bug-squished windshield, wipers arching on dry
glass
this madness of mind
the night corridor
neon light flashing reflections
flip--squish another bug as
swatting-- a swig slobbers
down my bug bitten lip,
a pair of eyes glow in the brush,
mosquitoes whine
in the green dashboard light
half glimpsed another shadow
swerving, he thought, a log
as it rolled out onto the highway
its scaly back and tail
waddled off,
into the smokey fog, the misty
onslaught of hopping frogs and snowy wings
twisting, squished
to splatter and blood, croak--
through a cloud he could see Orion peeking--
from low flying cloud, half hiding
a moon ripening
towards fullness,
the morning he drove through
arrived, shortly
opening onto a quiet dance
of bird and water mist reflecting
into the dream, he awoke to,
the single mosquito buzzing
in his ear
and palm rustle
he’d fallen asleep, there on the side of the road
here in the nether land
of mind, what was he waking to
he was hoping for
another glimpse of paradise
his Spoonbill, still unseen,
this white heron, beside the car
striking its way
bobbing forward and cocking its side ways
glance posing and stepping forward
there spearing an unseen frog
he watched the awkward grace
of drunk like bird dance and
the prance in the lemon morning light
well, what is that--
lending to pink, a cloud
of the Spoonbills, here--
all over, there, MUST be a hundred!
of them, they land, one by one
as they circle and take off again
stretching wings in all manner
of shape and pose
in such awkward grace
a ridiculousness that spoon-- reflecting
pink into green, a carnival
band strutting, silent in that further
light, I’m painting in the midst of all
this a feeling of grand tranquility
I had though I was a fool here in this Park
verging on dispair at the routine,
leaving now of sight see--ers as
realized! The show to just begin
as bugs arrived to guard the scene
the strutting of heron pose
and marching ultra violet
silent moves
failing light
only he is left
he is there finishing up his painting
maybe another fast one of the failing light--
Ahw! the bugs are just too much
finishing up
and in all glory what a satisfied --!
when, as so often at these moments
the grand finale, amid--
the rising full moon
in lavender light
rises above the silently bob of
feeding birds, small fish begin
their contest of jumping
through rings, extending
there, then, there-- like rain
rings of splash expand
the ghostly silence
floating disembodied
a flash of eyes gives them away
raccoons, out now in full
counting about twelve
tossing the paints-- slamming the trunk
painting blind
eyes swollen in the clouds of gnats
succumbing to this steaminess of stew
and paint, tossing it in the van
as over come, now
event and slaughter
swamp critters
making out, pink
in violet night
a single spoonbill on single leg
nuzzling a beak in feathers,
the stars appear,
the van’s buzzer insists
I’ve left the keys,
buzz, buzz, buzz,
the headlights I need now as I clean up
fumble
to get the keys scratching my face
I make Seminole marks down my cheeks
of green paint
skin crawling and fleeing
to what could feel as
the safety of
7 Eleven
lost in suburban wild
this degradation of every thing
seeming pornographic
such an experience
nature rounded up into a lot
with less budget than a B grade movie
Farewell to Florida, used up
the still though,
angelic palms waving
bowing, goodbye adieu
fifteen different bird’s songs
all competing for a space
the patterned sound, to be heard
what intricate beauty this diversity
black bird in a tree
the red bird flies
into the light
memory fades,
back to cities desire
drawing
glitter of--
dies into-- becoming
the memories of shadows,
comforting the loss
making his way back
and now
starting out
on another round,
the same
bleak artery of deteriorated concrete
de dump, de thump
onto Louisiana swamp and well-
its all changed
another cycle
adventure,
westering!
