Variable Moments of Awareness

I.
It is the rooking season.
The air clatters with the chitting
and chatting
and chirping
of a hundred starlings,
who then abruptly terminate
their confusion
of conversation
with a whoosh of wings
that whirls them away.
Silence.
Cries of the wild hens
in the far fen,
in the marsh,
in the wood;
and the runs of notes,
now staccato,
then legato.

II.
A rabbit prances
across the leaves.
Stops suddenly,
then leaps,
turns,
and bounces.
Its ears piercing the air at hand,
staring,
twitching,
wary,
then gone down the path.
I can feel the
first wisping droplets of rain,
shoots are on the limb,
and wash their hues of green and yellow
on the glade.

III.
If I hold still, the moss will surely grow on me,
and they will send through their roots
the secrets
of the wood.

IV.
Finches and robins
scurry
about the bush -
seeking meals for themselves
and their young,
or else gathering
for a nest
for those yet to come.

V.
The squirrels nibble hastily
at the morsels they have collected,
now no longer storing,
but reveling in the fresh blossom
of the season.
There is still dead leaf
on the ground,
providing the fuel
for the earth
to propel the exchange
of life and death.