Woodland Pastiche

In the near distance the woods echo 
the clamour of a juvenile crow insisting 
he must perish if not fed instantly, constantly. 
Close by the creek rippling in the hollow of
the ravine rises the sad, bare trunk of an elm, 
still alive last summer when a young owl 
and its parent sat together unmoving, 
unblinking, great heads occasionally 
swivelling downward, taking stock. Under 
the rude timbers of a crude bridge nests
a pair of happy flycatchers, and in the 
water below, water striders jolt about 
clumsily, as a dainty, iridescent Damselfly 
launches itself into the air. Beside the creek, 
its gentle banks green with meadow rue 
and jewelweed not yet abloom, anemones 
offer their ephemeral white blossoms to 
the shards of sun glancing through the forest 
canopy. Ah, and there, beside the water, a 
lone goldfinch has flown down, there to                begin its languidly ecstatic toilette.