The air is clear and more so
in drought. We wait for the cool, wishing
for snows we used to have, but still wait
for Orion to appear in night sky, he,
our heralding angel of deepest winter.
By day, now, we hear the silence of cardinals, jays,
goldfinches in their array of primary colors,
while chickadees, black-and-gray, fill the space
with joyous call. In the rattling corn, turkey hens
turn, call the flock together, and by dusk, rise
to trees on the hill where their unsettled wings
echo oak leaf clatter. In this October night,
I receive a phone call, way past bedtime,
on the landline number everyone has forgotten
except my son who never calls saying,
“Hey it’s me. Northern Lights.” And all I can say,
(as I have before when he has made this call)
“I love you forever.” On the north facing back porch
I see a sky of sunset rouge Northwest, Northeast,
white plume between and above,
green waves undulating. I stare and stare,
try to hear them, the beings who dance the Aurora Borealis.
From top of sky to horizon, colors fill
my empty spaces. I drink, replenish the places
where this October’s colors withered.
Sustained, I drink this night, it’s kaleidoscope flashing.
Still with hope, I seek the return of Orion.
—
Catherine Young, a disabled writer and performing artist, is author of the environmental memoir Black Diamonds: A Childhood Colored by Coal and the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her prose and poetry are published in anthologies and literary journals internationally and nationally. She worked as a national park ranger, farmer, educator, and mother. She loves meandering streams and deeply believes in the use of story for transforming the world. Find her Landward podcasts and writings at: www.catherineyoungwriter.com
