Will we

find each other

again?

The mist surged

down the mountain

in cresting wave

to finger fern and

moss and

foxglove,

to curl over

stone.

Monochopsis –

the subtle and

persistent feeling

of being out of place

in the world.

Flock-incised,

the path looped back

and forth

through wildsome,

wildflowered turf;

through beauty;

into obscurity.

Into dream.

Will we find

each other

again?

— C.Birde, 6/19

I do

my best thinking

in Nature’s

company…

although the

thinking

— admittedly —

f

e

e

l

s

like

knowing.

.

.

.

— C.Birde, 5/19

Arriving in decibels…

in treetop tremor

of birdsong;

in leaf and bud’s

slow creep –

dusted prismatic–

toward full-throated

green refrain;

in skies –

by turns –

glass blue,

then churned

orchestral gray;

in scattered petals’ –

cherry, crabapple –

concentric drift.

Crowned.

Decreed.

Embraced.

Reign.

— C.Birde, 4/19