“Storm King” © Mark Blickley

 

Learning to Fly – Prose Poem

Has it been three years since last we touched?

Carter’s Knob is the place on earth where I can look down and actually see the wind, barreling through the valley trees, crying on the shoulders of the winding stream, evoking the wandering ghosts who hover in the shade, shape-shifting in the evening mist.

Remember how we loved this mountain. We used to bring a picnic lunch and hike up here at least once a summer, taking three hours picking our way up the narrow trail, joking that, at least, going home would be all downhill. One year we found the eagle’s nest in the crotch of a lightning-split tree, two babies with male and female taking turns guarding the nest then arching out into space to fish in the river below.

When we returned the following year only one of the eagles remained. I have heard that eagles mate for life and this bird circled the top of the mountain for hours occasionally landing in the tree then launching again almost immediately. We imagined he was disconsolate. The following year he never showed up.

We built our nest on twenty acres in the village of Squaw Creek huddled in the lowlands between Carter’s Knob and Camelback. These were the golden times to be young and in love. Everything was possible. Then the war came. All of my neighbors joined up. I joined the army air corps because I had always wanted to fly. I failed the eye test and ended up in infantry on Omaha Beach. So much for flying.

For two years the letters came. One day they stopped. My brother wrote me about the accident. I didn’t get home until the following spring. Spring has now become summer. The grief has welled up in me like the smoke filtering up the hillsides before a storm, filling up my heart with a hopelessness that cannot be described. I think of the lone eagle circling and circling and then gone. And here I sit on this granite outcrop just making out our home in the distance, barely visible through the ever-present mist.

Three years is far too long. Slowly, I stand and walk to the edge of the ridge, just beyond the eagle tree and finally, fulfilling my childhood wish, I learn to fly.

 
 
Learning to Fly – Lyric Poem

Has it been three years since last we kissed?
On Carter’s Knob I look down and see the wind,
barreling through the valley trees,
squeezing the shoulders of the winding stream,
evoking itinerant ghosts who dream in shades of green,
shape-shifting in the morning mist.

Remember how we loved this mountain wide and high,
each summer climbing the meadow bridge,
picnicking atop the highest ridge,
marveling at the nesting eagles, regal in the Douglas fir
at the edge of the two-mile gorge.
We gazed at them and wondered how it is to fly.

Then one year when we returned,
we saw one bird, disconsolate, alone, circling,
his grieving song echoing on the mournful wind
down the mountainside riding on the rain.
We never saw that bird again.
Such is life when love is spurned.

You and I nested on the valley floor beyond,
forty acres and a Jersey cow,
I loved you then as I love you now.
My heart sang but I know somehow
that your heart never quite learned the tune.
Then one June I looked up and you were gone.

The grief wells up like smoke persists,
filtering up the hillsides before a storm,
until at last it strangles out the sun.
The lone eagle circles and circles and then is gone.
Here I sit on this granite outcrop making out our home,
barely visible through the ever-present mists.

Three years is far too long to cry.
Slowly, I stand and walk to the edge of space,
beyond the eagle tree and face the reality
of life spent circling above this place
and in this moment acquire the grace
to end my wondering. I will learn to fly.

 

Learning to Fly – a Sestina

Has it been three years since last we touched
The mountain looms so high, so high
Every Spring we climb the rugged peak
View our homestead far below
Picnic beneath the towering eagle tree
Wonder how it feels to fly

We often watch the mated eagles fly
How casually they swirl and seem to touch
The sky, nestlings hunkered in the tree
A Douglas fir so high, so high
The nest above and we below
Craning our necks to gain a peek

Then one Spring we scale the peak
To breathe the air and watch the eagles fly
But on this day as we stand below
The giant pine and gaze up where it touches
Sky above the mountain top so high, so high
A solitary eagle circles the empty tree

This mateless widower soars above his tree
No sound emerges, he’s forgotten how to speak
Finally we lose sight of him so high, so high
We wonder how it feels to fly
Away, we are so deeply touched
We hardly talk as we return to life below

Life goes on in the world below –
The Great War and I must leave the eagle tree
You and I must have our final touch
I volunteer for army air, my interest is piqued
I’ve always wondered how it is to fly
Above the battlefield so high, so high

One day I’m flying high, so high
Then fail my vision test, so low, so low
I guess I’m not cut out to fly
Get reassigned to army infantry
So far away the mountain eagle’s peak
So long ago our farewell touch

You’ve died since last we touched so far below
I ascend the mountain peak so high, so high
And climbing the eagle tree, I will finally learn to fly

 

Bob McAfee is a retired software consultant who lives with his wife near Boston.
He has written nine books of poetry, mostly on Love, Aging, and the Natural World.
For the last several years he has hosted a Wednesday night Zoom poetry workshop.
Since 2019, he has had 144 poems selected by 59 different publications. Two poems
Nominated for Best of the Net. His website, http://www.bobmcafee.com, contains links
to all his published poetry.

Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild, PEN American Center, and Veterans For Responsible Leadership. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).