Is it that January turns people to introspection, to poetry? I have received a wealth of poems during this past month that will fill the next several issues. I thought that the issue might be a little thin this month, but I had gotten more submissions that I had realized, after checking the directory of saved stuff. And people keep saying nice things about the 'zine.
But I was disturbed about a Feedback Board posting which I had removed. I have no desire to have Seeker harbor the hate-filled message that was posted. And frankly, I am tired of the seemingly endless discussion about the flag. I would neither burn the flag nor outlaw such action. And please, I love barn swallows; it was someone else who didn't like them on her porch, and that is a valid concern. They do tend to dive-bomb people when their nestlings are being fed and could easily scare a child. And Brandon (of Jack's Beanstalk) posted a message that was so good that I asked Denise to link from the JB site to the message, so it doesn't get missed. Be sure to check out "Dharma the Cat."
I could get used to comparative mild winters here on the upper plains north of Denver. There's a protected open space area that runs along Big Dry Creek that I enjoy walking in. Hawks seem to like it, also, and not too long ago a bald eagle decided to fly right over my head. The last weekend in January I walked it on Saturday and Sunday. On Saturday the ice that covered most of the pond was singing along the edges...singing a song that sounded like a chorus of frogs. On Sunday the ice was quiet, but the myriad of red-winged blackbirds decided that it was warm enough for them to sing their spring song, and the cattails were humming with red-wing notes. A meadowlark decided to air its cheerful warble, the first I'd heard since the end of November. Mind you, a flock of meadowlarks has been around, but I would guess that the light has gotten long enough, perhaps, to remind one of the coming springtime. I will close with a poem written in Vermont in December 1993, sparked by driving to work and suddenly noticing a lonely bird's nest in a young tree:
Reminders
The barest branches
bereft of leaves
sometimes hold
delicate reminders
of the summer past
of the spring birthing
of birding young
these nests woven of twigs,
grass stems and mud
still cling to their
stubborn anchors
the simplicity of a bird's life
must necessarily be complicated
by the raising of young,
by the weaving and patting
of those materials
into that cup called home,
though ever so briefly
in this cold insect-free world
the empty nests wait
and in their waiting
are constant reminders
of the coming rebirth,
the exquisite life
in the time of spring
Thank you, all of you who send me your writings for Seeker, and all of you who enjoy the thoughts and creations that are part of it.
Cherie Staples
Editor