Down in the Valley

 

“Down in the Valley”—a song my father used to sing on our family car trips whenever we descended into a valley. Later, I did the same with my family, though my voice hardly matched my father’s magical, clear, unwavering tenor.

Joyce and I drive “down in the valley” a lot, especially during the snow-less months—the Cuyahoga Valley National Park (see pic above) to see the various wonders—and, often, to visit Szalay’s Farm Market for fresh produce in the spring and summer and fall.

One day, in late March 2014, I was so dazzled by the sights and sites and thoughts, that, when we got home, I started writing lines, which on April 3 I finished and shared with my friends on Facebook. I thought I’d share those lines again today on this blog post, so here they are ...

In the Valley

March 21, 2014

(Cuyahoga Valley National Park)

 

We drive down through the valley on

this day in spring. The snow is gone,

except in places hidden from

the frigid sun—we notice some

between the fallen trees (this snow

a visitor who just won’t go).

But balmy temperatures have not—

so far—here in Ohio—got

a grasp, or efficacious way

to force the breezes to obey

the hopes of men. Not that the air

has any interest, any care,

for what we wish. And Nature takes

her own direction—never makes

an error that she cares about—

does not display a single doubt.

This evening, though, she seems to be

in such a mood as to agree

that maybe it is time—or near

the time—to soften. So the deer

we see there in the meadow seem

more calm tonight, there by the stream.

No jagged sense of panic jars

their movements. Not the passing cars.

No, not the fear of hunger. There 

is hope among the deer. The air

no longer terrifies. And then—

we turn—another road. Oh, when

will spring again commence its reign?

(This end-of-winter sad refrain

so often sung—and often heard—

a vernal plaint from bitter bird.)

And now we’re with the river as,

along the crooked route it has,

we flow, so riverine ourselves,

like minor gods—or river elves.

The absent foliage has made

it visible. The thinner shade

allows the sun in feeble stage

to melt the ice—one way to gauge

the potency of moving streams

that course through life like fluid dreams.

We see, these transmutating days,

effects the sun’s artistic rays

have on the grass, on plants whose leaves

have lingered on the stalk, the sheaves

that never made it from the field—

perhaps their fates were finally sealed

when frost and snow arrived at night

and draped them all in shrouds of white.

This evening light instructs us, views

revealing varied shaded hues

of brown. From chocolate to tan—

a pleasing, subtle, spectral span

across a color often named

with words like “drab.” Who can be blamed?

The color brown elicits no

excitement in the fashion show

that Nature mounts. But here—tonight—

this gentle fading evening light

reminds us of those other names

we use. A word like “bronze” proclaims

that brown has other suits to wear

and does so in this valley where

we see them all—the beige and bay,

the copper, cinnamon. Today

they’re all distinct here in the wood.

Belittled brown’s misunderstood

by those who haven’t seen its hues

so varied in this sunset’s views.

And then we turn toward the west

to see the place where herons nest.

They have a valley rookery

so near the road that we can see

them easily. And traffic stops

to see the birds arrayed in tops

of leafless trees. We marvel how

such slender branches bear the weight

of heavy birds as they create

their nests that soon will hold their young.

And here we are, almost among

these wonders who ignore us all

and thereby hold us all in thrall.

Such birds just seem impossible—

our reason dictates that the pull

of gravity should draw them down—

the way a heavy heart can drown

in sorrow. Yet we see them there

just hanging in the valley air,

surveying limbs where they can land

beside a mate—seems so offhand,

descent onto a perfect space,

insouciant, done with subtle grace.

The birds of course are now in pairs—

the spots they’ve picked are clearly theirs,

and it will not be long until

the eggs arrive, and soon the thrill

of seeing there—high in the trees—

new life. (Oh, there will be unease

among the chicks as they survey

the world below and learn the way

to sway in wind high in a tree,

then spread their wings and find they’re free

to ride the rivers in the air

that flow from here to everywhere.)

With darkness near we leave the nests

and drive away, now grateful guests,

and gradually ascend the rise

while sunset decorates the skies.

We’re silent, knowing river, trees,

and brown and birds are memories.

The snow will fall again this week,

but, later, one of us will speak:

“Let’s drive to see the birds tonight”—

and thus we’ll spend remaining light.