Things Are Not Always as They Seem
by Shyhawk
I travel to a place of the Old Ones this evening. It is late summer. The air is dry and warm. The sky is very blue with huge white cloud families scattered across her expanse. On the breeze is carried the summer song of the cicada. Mother's cleansing tears have been few and the dry earth dusts as my feet glide over her.
I pass by a field of corn. In spite of dry conditions the stalks tower over me. Each seems to carry one large ear. The breeze crackles and rustles through the now browning sentinels. The plants are between seasons. The green of summer is being replaced by the brown of fall.
Grasshoppers spring up and fly on black tipped wings before me out of the meadow grasses that border the field. Some hoppers are still green while others sport their autumn colors. The grasses stand tall with bowing fox tail heads. The now bushy tails are filled with small seeds—a promise of another generation to come.
The humidity has left. The air is now not heavy to breathe. I feel serene as I once more come home. A small stream flows by my side. The creek gurgles softly as minnows dart below her surface of cool clear spring waters. The stream is fed by the Sycamore Spring. This area has been home to my people for generations—until their removal by the early eighteenth century.
The spring forms a small pond shaded by large sycamore trees. During the migration ducks favor this place. The Old Ones presence can be felt here, and on a good day their songs are carried on the wind.
All seems good! I near the river. Here shag bark trees rise up to tower over the land. In their shadow grow thick areas of raspberry and ink berry. The raspberry is now over, but the ink berry only begins. The green bushes with red tinge hang heavy with small spines shaped as grape clusters. These spiny frames will soon grow heavy with round hard green berries that will eventually become juicy and deep purple.
I see before me on the dry dirt path a swirl of color dancing on the air and then settling to earth. Delicate wings seem to fan their tiny bodies as they rest upon the soil. As I draw closer their dance encompasses me.
I see what draws these delicate creatures here this day. A lone apple tree stands amongst the Black Walnut trees. Some green apples have fallen in this place. They are over rip and broken open. The delicate creatures drink the nectar with their long black tongues that quickly recoil in readiness to fly.
I was told to seek the blue butterfly. I searched through the summer but could find none. The quest was resting far in the back of my mind this day. I was just enjoying being home and all the beauty that surrounded me. I gazed upon the butterflies busily feeding on the downed apples' juices. They were the size of swallowtails. The wings were black with orange patterns. From a distance I thought they were maybe the ambassadors of autumn—the Monarch.
After approaching closer I could perceive they were not. Then to my astonishment the wings fanned open. The backs of the wings were trimmed in black but filled with an iridescent blue—blue! Here was the animal I was told to seek. Such grace and beauty. The blue is indescribable. A rich deep blue. A shadow glides across the earth. I look upward in time to see a large heavy bodied hawk gliding silently overhead. The blue butterflies dance on the wind! The smell of apple fills the air. The bounty of fall hangs heavy around me. My aloneness melts into a feeling of oneness with all about me here this eve.
Turtle doves lift from the field of corn in small flocks. Their soft voices can be heard above the rustle of the corn leaves. Their graceful flight and delicate beauty always touches my heart. A few downy plumes have been lost and float down to the dry path I walk. I look for them as I stroll along. I am reminded to let go of the things troubling me and let stillness enter my heart. Another small flock of doves takes to the air before me. I am reminded to slow my pace even more—to take in all that is about me.
At my feet lies a brown feather. The feather is long and broad with a slight curve. Evenly spaced are lines of white. It is the wing feather of a turkey. It is a good gift! Thank you Creator. A few steps more and the down of the dove is found. A gift of tobacco is left.
I look to the canopy once more. The trees here are Black Walnut. The leaves begin to brown. Soon the tree will be only a skeleton. The nut trees are the first to lose their foliage with the approach of winter. The boughs hang heavy with sheaths of lite green. Inside these coverings are buried the dark brown of the now ripening nut. Soon these balls will drop to earth. The coverings will split to reveal the hard shell of the rich walnut.
Oak trees intermingle now. The canopy is still a deep green. Yet they too show change is on the way. The leaves now lack the rich luster of spring and early summer. The dull leaves will soon turn their deep red or brown before dropping to the forest floor to become a part of her.
Small bunches of acorns dot her limbs. These already are adorned in the lite brown colors of fall. At my feet lay several that have already journeyed from the canopy to earth. Their brownish white color pattern covers a smooth nut devoid of the cap that once secured it to the tree. The umbilical cord has been severed and a new generation is ready to take hold.
I now hear the roar of the river rushing over the cascades that fill here bed. The air now carries her aroma—damp and sweet upon the dry air that surrounds here banks. In spite of the dry weather she runs fast and almost full. Geese swirl and honk over the break in the trees that define her shores. One by one they drop to her surface feet extended gliding to a stop and settling down to rest on the current.
I have noticed the geese have been flying for the past two weeks. This week the first ducks have stopped on their journey south. To one unobservant it would seem summer holds strong and the cold of winter is far away.
I settle down to rest against an old oak. It is a good place to listen to the silence. The river is a lullaby—my thoughts turn inwards. Then before me is a snake. The snake is about two feet in length. Her body is very heavy. A dark beige to soft brown color wraps around her. Upon her tawny skin are spots of black covering her in a random pattern.
She is very rare in this area—properly known as a Kirtland. I gently lift her in my hands not restraining her. She can glide sleekly across my palms. It is the time of year for her to bear young. I go to release her so she would not be to stressed. Her head spins back over her body and she strikes. I slide my hand up behind her head and tighten my grip to keep her from biting.
Her shape becomes a blur of brown and when it again becomes clear—I no longer hold a Kirtland but a Pine Martin. The wiry brown hair bristles in my palms. She hisses and wriggles to get free. Her black eyes look back over her small powerful shoulder deep into mine. Then she bites me hard in the webbing between my thumb and fore finger. The pain is excruciating and I drop her immediately. As she runs for the woodline her form again blurs. Once more the small brown snake is before me. She slowly glides into the grasses under the canopy of trees. The wind whispers a message to me.
Things are not as they seem—things are not always as they seem.
I am reminded of the butterfly that from a distance mimicked the Monarch of orange and black. Only to reveal upon closer view the beautiful blue of the butterfly I was seeking. Everything around me upon first glance seems to be summer. Yet again upon closer inspection—the signs are shown of a winter approaching. The warm easy times of summer will soon be replaced by the harsh hard cold of winter.
It is not only nature and animals that are not always as they seem—but even more so people. A struggle has gone on for years now to protect a forest and lake here. Upon this land lies my ancestors. The city, who owns the property used as a water shed, wishes to develop the land into high end housing.
Promises have been given by politicians to preserve the land as is—forest and lake. Yet several who promised try to sneak a development deal past the public. It seemed the property and the Old Ones would be left alone finally. Even those who pushed for development made statements now of support to preserve the land.
The same time the Kirtland came to visit—its message came to pass. A report was given in the news paper that the lake was draining and drying up. On approach to the once beautiful lake a sadness took hold of my heart. Her level was down critically. A dead turtle now rested on her exposed drying and cracked ribs. Where once abundant aquatic life flourished was now steep slopes of cracked mud and rock. What life survived was forced into a small pool of water that would soon be not able to support those clinging there to life.
The city representatives stated they had no clue. Perhaps the drought or maybe even a sink hole opened at the bottom of the lake. Yet no swirl of water could be seen entering a chasm. The water flow incoming to the lake was checked. It was sufficient to have the lake full and vibrant. The city representatives stated they were baffled.
At one time the lake was used to supply water to the city and to keep levels in the stream high in dry periods. The pies were thought to be unusable from their age and lack of use. Yet what else could be the answer. The city was contacted and again they stated the valves were closed. No one was near them in over two years. Soon an outcry from the public came to check the valves.
Sure enough one large valve was open wide. The fish commission supervised the closing of the vale. Some water had to be left flowing through the pipe temporarily until the lake level again rose to normal so the stream below the lake would not dry up. The city stated they didn't think this was the cause. Yet the lake begins to slowly rise once more. Who would benefit from this act? With the lake drained the property would be far less useful as a park. Cost to supposedly refill the dam would have been shown as a great expense.
You must make up your own mind. For myself I see it as another attempt to break promises to the public and the earth. Another attempt to develop this sacred place—driven by a five million dollar price tag.
The Kirtland brought its message at an opportune time. Our people must be ready for changes that are not only coming but have begun. Many think these changes will come to pass slowly with plenty of time to prepare. It may not be so. If you remain vigilant signs will be shown. As the promise of a new generation in the seeds of fall. The coming of winter already foretold at the wane of summer by plants and animals. So to the signs have been foretold to our people.
A deep sadness has fallen cross our land with the coming of Hurricane Katrina. Yet it is another sign of how far out of balance Mother has become. The hurricanes are an energy release to bring the seas temperatures into balance. Mother stirs more often now as the balance loss grows ever greater.
The warnings of worsening strom seasons were given—for more erratic weather patterns and seasonal weather. Most people do not hear or see. To them it is a surprise or something that could not happen. One day the sky is blue the wind is soft—then in almost an instant life is changed forever.
I remember well the words whispered on the wind after the Kirtland's visit!
Things are not as they seem—things are not always as they seem.
volume 9(6)
This poem is copyright © September 2005,
Shyhawk, all rights reserved.
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