After arguing,
flat, cabin-bound,
we grump the Murden Cove
trail. No homes back then,
just second growth and silence–
now whooshed by raucous wing beats
and bold laughter. Craning
our necks, we spy a flash of red,
black, white, then scandalous
full view.
We laugh and pileate
all the way
home.
(No. 64 in a series of responses to Han-shan’s Songs of Cold Mountain)
So long ago (1973 or so), this was the first pileated woodpecker that my former wife and I had ever seen. It’s sheer magnificence and outrageousness cleared our heads and made us healthy fools.
(Numeric reference to Han-shan’s poem reflects the order of presentation in Burton Watson’s translation, presented as Cold Mountain, Columbia University Press, 1970.)
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