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Bufflehead Cabin
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!
— Emily Dickinson
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But now new hope is taking wing: a fresh class of five young ‘alalā has been released into the wild on the slopes of the Haleakalā volcano on the island of Maui, where ‘io are absent.
“From my perspective, the danger isn’t that a new alien entity will speak through our technology and take over and destroy us. To me the danger is that we’ll use our technology to become mutually unintelligible or to become insane if you like, in a way that we aren’t acting with enough understanding and self-interest to survive, and we die through insanity, essentially.”
Clifton Hicks - The Cuckoo (Coo Coo)
My son Clifton singing and playing banjo during a visit to Bufflehead Cabin in better days.
Crows
by Mary Oliver
It is January, and there are crows
like black flowers on the snow.
While I watch, they rise and float toward the frozen pond,
they have seen
some streak of death on the dark ice.
They gather around it and consume everything, the strings
and the red music of that nameless body. Then they shout,
one hungry, blunt voice echoing another.
It begins to rain.
Later, it becomes February,
and even later, spring
returns, a chorus of thousands.
They bow, and begin their important music.
I recognize the oriole.
I recognize the thrush, and the mockingbird.
I recognize the business of summer, which is to forge ahead,
delicately.
So I dip my fingers among the green stems, delicately.
I lounge at the edge of the leafing pond, delicately.
I scarcely remember the crust of the snow.
I scarcely remember the icy dawns and the sun like a lamp
without a fuse.
I don’t remember the fury of loneliness.
I never felt the wind’s drift.
I never heard of the struggle between anything and nothing.
I never saw the flapping, blood-gulping crows.
(via ssolson8550)
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