Orchids and Eagles, and: After a Sung Dynasty Scroll by Hsiao Chio, and: The Return of the Hunters, and: The Kitchen Bird, and: The Island without Tourists, and: Just Once, and: Waiting for the Alchemist Mark Perlberg Orchids and Eagles Something happened to the cables that run under miles of water to our island, so we play cribbage in the light of six candles and a hurricane lamp. I look up from my cards. In the black window opposite, the assortment of candles and the lamp float in the glass, and I am back in the dining room of a hotel in Morelia. Tall white candles and white orchids float in a wall of wood-framed windows above the valley, mingled with pricks of light from the old city— images that have not risen to mind for thirty years. What is memory? Praise it. Praise its strings and loops of orchids floating in the night above the old Mexican town— and yesterday—that pair of eagles, drifting, floating above the island, dallying with the wind. [End Page 66] After a Sung Dynasty Scroll by Hsiao Chio The great crag fills the sky. Three waterfalls drop from cliffs without a sound. Trails wind through trees. They ascend, disappear, and reappear. A placid river flows at the mountain's base, where a servant ties a flat-bottomed boat to a landing. He has ferried over a pair of sages, with their topknots and dark crimson robes. They talk about The Mandate of Heaven and read their poems to each other. Near the summit, temple buildings, their roofs curved up like wings, stand half hidden behind walls and groves of pine. Has the boatman ferried the men past the world's edge? Is this the country beyond death? The Return of the Hunters after the painting by Brueghel They enter the scene under a gray, mottled sky with their dogs. They have reached the crest of a snowy hill above their village after a day of hard slogging. Dark birds brood on iron-cold branches. Below, skaters thrust and turn on a frozen pond. [End Page 67] How many times have I looked at this translation of a world and failed to notice the hunters' game bags are empty? Even the dogs are dejected. Winter will be endless. The Kitchen Bird Above our stove a Persian bird flies on a Persian tile in a surround of stalks and flowers, some blue like his wings, some like his breast cinnamon-rose. His beak is open; he stares straight up. This is the way he greets each morning. Singing. The Island without Tourists Vinalhaven, Maine 1 Late September. No more sunsets of lavender, pale green, rose, soft gray. The west red-orange like a furnace. [End Page 68] No lights from neighboring houses. The full moon bright enough to turn the islet below, each pointed spruce, upside down in the flat-calm bay. 2 Bright morning. Wind rushes in treetops. aerial surf swoops, roughs my hair, sizzles in my ears. My own sound in the mix— big shoes on gravel. It's all music. Just Once I have never seen my father in a dream. He died when I was five. A scrap of memory washed in browns and grays is all I retain. If I could see him just once in my night theater, what would he say to his second son at last? [End Page 69] Waiting for the Alchemist The October sun fires late chrysanthemums, garnet, lavender, bright yellow. It strikes an antique dollhouse set down on the stump of an elm. A wicker bell tolls. In my back garden at five in the afternoon, my shadow's a hundred feet long. If I squint sidewise, just so, at the white sun on a day like this, I might uncover the philosopher's stone...