The Creation of the Grey Parrot
By Gloria Ridgway
Submitted by Diane Christiansen
The Creators sat by the edge of sea,
Their shining new world a joy to see
There were all the beasts of every kind;
Herbs, grasses and trees and fruiting vine.
But somehow, they noticed a lack was there,
A missing’something’ to move through the air…
Insects and angels are just NOT enough;
We need something between, not so small, not so grand,
Something for everywhere: sea, sky and land.
So they gathered up petals of every hue,
Gave the Breath of Heaven:
And the petals flew.
They turned in the air moving white and green,
Yellow and red, and all colors between…
The blue of a gentian with daffodil gold;
Shimmering shadow from an evergreen fold,
White daisy in sunlight spun raucous delight,
While scarlet and green soared into the night.
All the colors of earth merged in ways rare and fine,
Forming splendor in feathers with wings made of sublime.
All from the petals of Earth’s very best,
And then kissed by the breath of Heavens own blest.
They sat on the hill and they watched the great flight,
With joy and laughter and unbound delight.
But they found a small lack; a something not right,
And they bent to find where they had failed their foresight.
Far from the south a great cloud roiled free
In piles and billows it spilled over the sea,
Rushing and roaring up the river it fled;
All grayness and moon shot
With a curfed silver head.
It came from deep shadowed darkness
While the huntress shone bright
But this mighty storm cloud
Bore her crest and her light.
Deeper yet to the west the sun had set down
A flame of farewell to the sea the ground.
The mighty ones stood, looked east toward the day;
Subtle hints of morning not yet quite on the way;
And they gave a great shout inspired and proud
Put out heir hands, grasped chaos and cloud;
Reached for the morning still allunborn,
Plaited the sunset, flaming and warm
Whispered a WORD to the river wind
Sang a NOTE from the stars: a perilous hymn;
And brought forth a bird with the moon on his face,
Silver mail on his breast in a pattern of lace;
Wings shifting creating a wafting of dark,
Tail feathers of sunset shouting his mark;
And his eye, oh his eyebrought first blackest night,
Hidden fallings of stars, gentlest light;
Shading at last into sun pale and bright.
He hovered before them this bird made of storm,
This most perfect creation of all winged ones
Storm parrot, grey Parrot, Creations’ own son