"Cuee lee la!  Cuee lee la!"

From inertia he darts, from time to time,

three paces or so and, with a quick

plunge of his bill, snatches another bite. 

This is the patient pattern by which

the molting golden plover nabs nutrients

in the form of  bugs, worms and miscellaneous

invertebrates from the shallow tundra pond.

Nearby, his mate idly supervises

from atop a low ridge left long ago

by a passing glacier.  Beneath her breast,

in a saucer-like depression lined with

reindeer moss, nestles their clutch

of four tiny tan freckled eggs.

If the eggs escape calamity in the form

of foraging weasels, foxes, gulls, bears

and breakage and four healthy specimens

emerge and survive their early post-hatching

helplessness, what then?  What forewarning,

what awareness can be provided them

regarding the stupendous challenge

they were created and are ordained to meet?

No Father Plover will line up his offspring

and, while pacing up and down the rank

on his long, charcoal gray, wire clothes hanger

legs in a flurry of steps at a time, as is his

custom, explain what being an American

golden plover is all about.

"Listen, kids!  There's no time to waste!

You have less than six weeks to get ready.

You're not like all the other birds of the

arctic tundra.  Some of them don't migrate. 

Some don't go any farther south

than the Lake Kootenay neighborhood

in British Columbia.  Between Washington

and California most, even some plovers,

stop to spend the winter.  Not us, not our kind."

It would be too bad the quail-sized bird

couldn't be decked out in full winter

"Class A" plumage, proud as he'd have been,

letting the young ones know their destiny.

"We fly . . ."  He would pause for effect,

turning on his three-clawed foot to inspect

the brood.  Then he'd resume, speaking

very slowly and softly until he got to the final

few words.  " . . nearly eight thousand miles,

to Tierra del Fuego, off the tip of SOUTH 

AMERICA!  THEN WE FLY BACK!

Mother Plover would then chime in:

"Now children, you heard your father.

You have to get ready to go fly, uhm,

fifteen thousand seven hundred miles

and be back here by the middle of May,

so you'll have time to find a mate

and get your eggs laid early enough."

No, it doesn't happen like that.  But young

golden plovers do get ready and, in early

autumn, take to the air, turn their tail

feathers toward the great magnetic mass,

and begin their incredible migration.  

And any bird that endures and returns

to mate is surely made of the stuff

that keeps a species in survival mode.

"Cuee lee la!  Cuee lee la!"

                               Kenneth Rehill

Circles

On earth, a spherical planet

in circular orbit around a round sun

on the fringe of a galaxy

swirling in space,

a wolf gazes into the pond

from which he drank and watches

the ripples radiating from the drops

of water falling from his muzzle.

Before he lies down, he walks

in a circle to honor the Great Spirit

who taught him the power of the circle.

The wolf survives because he knows

the circle in which the hare flees

and how the moose circles back

on his own trail before bedding down.

                              Kenneth Rehill

Translation

Ah, the challenge,

with mere human words,

to capture the loon's cry,

describe his coloration

when the rising sun's rays

have found his glistening

feathers, only constant

in ever changing as he moves,

moves as he was meant,

plowing through, distorting,

an aspen groves's reflection.

If I can't quite understand

my sense that his right

to be here is more intact

than mine,  how can I convey

that?  The pond breathes

a scent of mucky decay,

signaling the circularity of life.

Earnestly, the horsetails rise.

The trees transpire.  The loon

swims, dives, yodels

beneath the sustaining sun.

                       Kenneth Rehill

Moose

Like an apparition, the rheumy-eyed,
cumbersome deer mass took shape
beyond the disintegrating foliage curtain.

He slouched in the shadows, blurred
by branches and the few leaves, drained
of blue, that hadn't lost their grip

in the first frosts. A micro movement
delineated his antlers, huge serrated
pottery shards fraternizing with tree limbs

a grave's height above brown comforter
covered ground. Jaded, splay-legged,
jaw full of chew, he seemed in possession

of less vim than a plough horse, retired
over-used. From droop, his oversized ears
flipped abruptly upright, turning to catch

the breeze and magnify a clatter, faint
and distant. His massive head pivoted,
realigning itself with his hearing apparatus.

His nostrils flared to teacup size as he
inhaled deeply, chest expanding. On the
flutter-lipped exhalation, his head stretched

forward and he raised one hoof, assuming,
for a moment, the stance of a bird dog pointing.
Then he raked the ground with that huge hoof,

grunting and snorting with indignation.
He marched off at quick-step, head held
high. The crackling of branches as he plowed

his way through the woods and the steady
thump of his hooves was heard long after
he could be seen no more.

Then there was splashing
followed by crackling and thumps.
that faded into a memory.

Kenneth Rehill