Weaving through
the misted morn,
through soft-furred edges
of gray chill,
I stirred a cloud of birds —
blackbirds, all.
As one, they rose,
an avian inhalation,
a gasp
of feathered wings;
when I only wish to be
the tree
in whose branches
they might alight.
–C.Birde
I am fortunate this creature found me intriguing enough to make her presence known, and elated she allowed me to photograph her. We sat together a moment, amongst the leaf-fall and gilt trees, sipping cold, sweet dew from acorn caps while admiring the advancing morning’s play of light and color. Then, without a word, she vanished. Sprites are mercurial that way.
The day —
unseasonably warm.
The sun —
a smudged, pale disk
winking
through atmospheric haze.
How did he see it?
Suspended
within erect vertical grays
of leafless limbs?
A fibrous tea-cup
extended
in the slim tree’s
thumb and forefinger.
In offering,
in invitation
to sip
the echo of Spring.
–C.Birde
A young beech gathers sunlight in its parchment leaves and whispers of an Autumn reluctant to depart.
The night sky bloomed
with color —
unexpected as song,
welcome as benediction.
Rapturous,
the descending hues
of indigo and blue,
rose madder and scarlet
kissed the fringe
of treetops gold.
“Hurry,” he urged,
so I ran —
down the walk
through the frost-edged eve
into rapidly falling dark
to stand alone
as the paean subsided
amidst soaring
cathedral
trees.
— C.Birde
