Just a Tuesday afternoon at work. A wicked wind, winter's last breath, blustering outside. We complained hard against it when out at lunch.
Still. Two computer screens can't keep my attention from the long-lost sun that shines this afternoon.
A flash of white, a streak of dark grey against the blue aside my window. Often the red-tail hawk, the large black crow skate and skim by. But not today.
A glance and a startled glance. The white head, the white-fanned tail, the curved wings -- today it is a bald eagle that flies so close to the building's mirrored glass I could count the feathers, I can see the variegated greys of its body, the black eye, the talons -- so close I could imagine shifting through the window pane, spreading my wings, gliding along on the same current, up the same draft the eagle takes as it tacks to the north, leave the computer and desk behind as we soar high and higher, left to right, then finally up and over the ridge beyond the office, behind the trees and suddenly out of sight,
Eagle, what if you knew a person who started a project and called it '365 Poems' and was foolhardy enough to think she could write a poem every day? Well, yes: I supposed that is a good kind of fool. But she realizes, as the days pile up, that, of course, good poems are not written in a day. Poems need to be thought about, sketched out, mulled over, revised, edited, rinse, repeat, etc. So she is not going to write 365 good poems. Maybe five acceptable poems. But still. Every day has a little something that's maybe poetic. Something worth filing in the notebook. (Or blog entry.) So the definition of 'poem' expands, and all kinds of interesting little things get noted.
And, of course, when the definition of 'poem' gets big enough, poetry breaks out everywhere. Some days, it even flies by a window, so beautiful, graceful, and unexpected, it makes one want to fly along.
And so, she does.