nightjar raze a feather pierced the pad of one foot through the rawboned barrier of summer sock, barb biting into surprised skin. i held it up to the light to be sure it wasn't mine. crepuscular birds leave so much of themselves on the cutting room floor. 250429 ... ovenbird In the 1930s, English poet Henry Newbolt wrote of an injured nightjar that died in his care: "The heart of man soon sets itself to love a living companion, the more so if by chance it asks some care of him. And this one had the kind of loveliness that goes far deeper than the optic nerve- full fathom five to the soul's ocean cave, where Wonder and Reason tell their alternate dreams of how the world was made." His words call me to a state of awe and I marvel at the human heart's capacity for love and care. If only we would exercise it more--scoop each other up from where we've fallen and tend to all the broken wings and tattered feathers, wrap each other in warm blankets and sing softly in the twilight, our voices like cats purring. For it is in this asking and receiving of care that love grows rather than in the fierce independence we often demand of ourselves. If only we were better at staying put right through to the very end when there is nothing left to say, until wonder binds us together into something like infinity. 250430 what's it to you? who go blather from