Observed Rituals of the North American
Homosapien Sapling
Cut, wet grass bleeds green
on the white-soled shoes of
the doe-eyed cheerleaders.
The drumbeat, so deep and
low, we feel it behind our
ribs and beneath our feet.
The metal bleachers seem
alive with the collective
energy and thrum of eight
hundred teenagers and a
light dusting of adults
rumbling their Friday night
fugue into the aluminum
of the small town high
school stadium. The air
is warm, but waiting to
turn its back on summer.
We are here.
We are here.
We are here.
Back in the game.
That Day
Every year there is this one
day that offers itself up, in
September or sometimes
October, to take a sharp
left from the thick wool of
summer. On that day, the
air, so delicate and chilled,
is like the thin-skinned ice
of an early March pond.
We, with swollen, sunburned,
summer strained arms,
welcome this day and all
its fall friends to follow.
With the day comes
respite and mercy from
the heat and the weight
of all that has come and
gone. In the beat of a wing,
flick of a tail, flutter of
a leaf, the world tilts and
releases another fold in
the calendar.
Tiny Tourists at the Trevi
The spotted towhees come shyly
at first, like third sisters with open
dance cards. But soon there are
five of them holding court ‘round
the edge of the terracotta fountain.
One has brazenly hopped to the
center, abandoned all decorum,
and gone full bohemian, flinging
water in arcs and splashes like
a tiny outboard motor.
Just five feet away, behind the
glass door, she sits, thrilled at
the show the tiny troupe of birds
is putting on for her. A cane rests
against the doorway, near her
chair. She hears a sound like
a furnace starting up in the
distance, but smiles when she
realizes it is her own wheezing
breath. Yet, these little birds…
make her soul lift, take her to her
Grama Gracie’s house in the valley.
She can have these moments of joy,
like pulling a wagon filled with pansies
even as she bumps along the path
still lined with brambles and thorns.
Tiffany Oaks Bloyer is a mother of three, a poet, a photographer, and an incurable optimist. She enjoys striking up conversations with complete strangers in line at the grocery store, much to the embarrassment of her teenagers. She believes that kindness and gratitude are the very best gifts you can give to yourself and to others, so she is very rarely found without them.
Homosapien Sapling
Cut, wet grass bleeds green
on the white-soled shoes of
the doe-eyed cheerleaders.
The drumbeat, so deep and
low, we feel it behind our
ribs and beneath our feet.
The metal bleachers seem
alive with the collective
energy and thrum of eight
hundred teenagers and a
light dusting of adults
rumbling their Friday night
fugue into the aluminum
of the small town high
school stadium. The air
is warm, but waiting to
turn its back on summer.
We are here.
We are here.
We are here.
Back in the game.
That Day
Every year there is this one
day that offers itself up, in
September or sometimes
October, to take a sharp
left from the thick wool of
summer. On that day, the
air, so delicate and chilled,
is like the thin-skinned ice
of an early March pond.
We, with swollen, sunburned,
summer strained arms,
welcome this day and all
its fall friends to follow.
With the day comes
respite and mercy from
the heat and the weight
of all that has come and
gone. In the beat of a wing,
flick of a tail, flutter of
a leaf, the world tilts and
releases another fold in
the calendar.
Tiny Tourists at the Trevi
The spotted towhees come shyly
at first, like third sisters with open
dance cards. But soon there are
five of them holding court ‘round
the edge of the terracotta fountain.
One has brazenly hopped to the
center, abandoned all decorum,
and gone full bohemian, flinging
water in arcs and splashes like
a tiny outboard motor.
Just five feet away, behind the
glass door, she sits, thrilled at
the show the tiny troupe of birds
is putting on for her. A cane rests
against the doorway, near her
chair. She hears a sound like
a furnace starting up in the
distance, but smiles when she
realizes it is her own wheezing
breath. Yet, these little birds…
make her soul lift, take her to her
Grama Gracie’s house in the valley.
She can have these moments of joy,
like pulling a wagon filled with pansies
even as she bumps along the path
still lined with brambles and thorns.
Tiffany Oaks Bloyer is a mother of three, a poet, a photographer, and an incurable optimist. She enjoys striking up conversations with complete strangers in line at the grocery store, much to the embarrassment of her teenagers. She believes that kindness and gratitude are the very best gifts you can give to yourself and to others, so she is very rarely found without them.