I gave my cares
to the earth,
to the tumbled soil;
my fears
to the wind’s knife edge;
and my tears
to the rivers and
spreading sea.
A thudding grief
expelled
in howl and echo.
I came undone.
Nothing remained
but time and space,
and the residue
of flint-hard hope
to begin
again.
— C.Birde, 12/17
A mere twelve inches at the shoulder, fourteen inches in length from chest to tail, it is the smallest of white-tailed deer. And so young – its tawny coat is sprinkled with white dots. It stands on impossibly slender legs. With a flick and flash of its tail, it gathers together its tiny hooves to leap and prance and dart about. For sheer joy, it cuts reckless, random patterns through the swaying meadow, beneath the dividing shade of towering trees.
At last, it pauses – gawky legs spread and anchored, tail raised, ears alert – an arm’s length away. Reach out to stroke it, to feel the silken fur stretched over that delicate structure of bones; to feel the small knob of skull, that firm reassurance crowned in large, fur-fringed ears.
Away. Away.
Fleet as forethought, the fawn leaps beyond reach, dashes in mad circles through wind-blown grasses. Scissoring through wildflowers, it cuts back and forth in indecipherable movements. Upon reaching the base of a great, thick oak, the deerling whisks up the tree’s grooved trunk. Tiny hooves serve as pitons fitted to the bark’s cracks and fissures.
Hand’s edge raised to shield your eyes, lean back, squint to follow its wild movement. Spy a flash of auburn within the canopy overhead. Hear the scrabble of its hooves against trunk and branches. Catch the sift and fall of loosened bark against your upturned cheeks, chin, lips. Feel a fist-solid pressure rise beneath your breastbone.
Lost.
— C.Birde, 12/17
Part the
drape of light and shadow.
Step along
the leaf-fallen carpet.
Enter.
Realign.
Follow.
— C.Birde, 11/17
The trees’
weight of blackbirds
has diminished today;
the sky, less darkly rivered with
motion.
— C.Birde, 11/17
They sit
in the dark
& crowded room,
hip-to-hip-to-hip &
shoulder-to-shoulder,
hunched ‘round the tv’s
flicker & flutter of half-light
in silence.
Except
the one who
sits beyond the
spasm of shadow
outside that too-small
space.
Down
a narrow hall
in a chair ill-suited to
its full-sized occupant,
whose gray-wool jacket & pants
likewise strain to contain their wearer’s
size.
Despite
such details —
too-small-chair & -suit of clothes –
that one maintains a calm
& enviable
ease.
— C.Birde, 11/17
To all of you who visit
Nightjars & Damselflies
— since its conception and more recently —
Thank you.
I draw strength
from your support and
encouragement.
🕊
— C.Birde, 11/17
The warmth and safety
of this moment,
this place,
are no defense,
nor the play of light splashed
against closed eyelids.
The unwelcome thoughts
leap —
small, wild rabbits
through the wire fence
of consciousness.
They should not fit,
become lodged half-way,
caught between life
and non-life.
Cut them free.
Gently,
gently
lift and release each one.
Swaddle it,
heart-to-heart.
Match that rapid pulse
and stroke
the dampened fur to warmth.
Speak tenderly into the
long, listening ears
of love and
love and
love.
— C.Birde, 11/17
I’ll brew a tea
of young sassafras
roots,
and we’ll sit together
at their elders’
knees,
warm our hands
on our brimming
cups, and sip
sweet
Autumn.
— C.Birde, 11/17
Head full of ciphers,
fist full of stars,
she hears
the unsaid,
speaks
with a cynic’s
tongue.
Elbows sharp’d
against all storms;
her shoulder’s chip
maintains its buff
and shine.
Burr of flesh,
angled thought, or
heart’s constriction –
real,
perceived;
We understand
each other.
Her shadow
ascends,
extends –
I stand
in the
light.
— C.Birde
Truth
is a
tree in the wood —
roots and boughs lead to one
trunk.
— C.Birde, 11/17