Constellation of feathers,
they stud the burning bush,
the hedge and wires,
and with the least
provocation,
lift
in a cloud of wings,
scissoring up and away.
Small messengers.
Each a hope too large
to bear alone.
Each a small
elevation
of heart.
— C.Birde, 8/17
The building is a single story, squat and square with walls made entirely of windows. Situated on the beach, it stares blindly over the great, gray stretch of ocean. Lace-edged waves lap and curl against the sandy shore. All seems tranquil, quiet. Stand before the barrier windows, though, hands pressed to the glass; glance left – the serenity is broken. A killer whale is caught in the shallow water, breached. Taut, sleek ,black and white skin runs with seawater. A pectoral fin lists skyward. The large mouth, arrayed with rows of sharp teeth, hangs slack – a shadowed pink cavern.
Howl an animal cry. For the waste of life. For the selfishness. For callous business decisions and profit margins that disregard the larger picture. For the tangled and interconnected web in which we are all a part. For compassionless, human hubris.
Howl again, in anguish while all those surrounding continue, unpreturbed, with their individual tasks. Heads bent over papers and devices, they remain unaware, detached. Unconcerned for the great creature’s suffering and passing; unmoved by the strangled human wail that issues from amidst their own.
All but one. She approaches. A little girl, wide-eyed and concerned. How old – eight, nine, ten? She feels it, too. The grief. The suffering. But her hand is firm, her touch warm. Her very presence anchors, halves the pain.
Cling to her. Don’t let go. Fight it. Together.
— C.Birde, 8/17
He creeps amongst
the fennel stems,
content to nibble
fragrant, feathered
leaves.
He never dreams
of flight.
— C.Birde, 8/11/17
Crickets sing
a tidal song —
legion notes united,
lapping one
against another.
Too close,
too rapid to measure
the hairsbreadth space
between,
to take the night’s
aural temperature.
But it is cool for August.
Pull the blankets up.
Listen –
The crickets’ evensong
washes
against thin-paned glass,
and bears
the swollen Moon
through
Her arching
transit.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Wrestle him to the ground. Feel the hard bite of blacktop on hips, shoulders, elbows. Knuckles rasp and bleed. Bruises form. These facts are fleeting, unimportant. Scuffle and roll. Work to pry the camera from his grip. This is no easy task, for Alec Baldwin is determined – and large. But the camera isn’t his; it belongs to the little girl. She mourns its loss, boards the bus with her mother, weeping. The bus idles for a moment at the curb, signals blinking, tailpipes emitting smoke.
Prize the camera from Baldwin’s hands, and rise triumphant, sweating and panting. Watch the bus pull away. It chugs down the street, slowly gathers speed. Must return the camera to the little girl. Jump onto another bus before its accordion doors can close. Stand on the steps in the open doorway. Right hand clutches the camera. Left hand grasps the metal handhold, cool and smooth to the touch. Lean past the doorway, through the narrow gap into the open air.
Slowly, the bus gathers speed. Breeze whips against flesh, tangles hair. Squint to see. Velocity increases in increments – thirty miles an hour, forty, fifty-five, seventy-five. The camera’s lens cap careens wildly against its black nylon tether, cracks against ulna and radius. Cling to camera and handhold both. Remain anchored. Do not lose hope. Even as traffic lights interfere with pursuit. Even as the distance between buses yawns and increases. Reunion of camera and girl is guaranteed. Success is imminent.
— C.Birde, 7/17
On the languid summer breeze,
carried by the breath of trees,
I heard a rumor —
that if one is patient enough
and still enough
for long enough,
the diminutive and dainty
Asiatic Daylily
will alight in one’s
outstretched palm
and sing.
Well worth the effort,
for its pitch
is perfect.
— C.Bird, 8/17
Shrill summer —
heady spell of drama,
pushed and pulled
to extremes.
A full-throated
shout
of heat and light and
expectation,
swollen
beyond tolerance.
Cicadas rehearse
their one-note
chorus,
and sparrows leave
shallow depressions
beneath the hedge
to mark
their baths of dust.
Disconnected,
we hide and bemoan
the heat,
impoverished time,
our stillborn
dreams.
— C.Birde, 8/2/17
Their exhale;
our inhale.
Breath,
co-mingled.
— C.Birde, 7/17
Clouds
blur the horizon,
smudge
the crooked line
defining
here and there,
then and now.
Slowly,
the crows return
to roost
in the evergreen’s
upswept boughs,
their wings glossy,
inked with words
unwritten.
The sky inhales,
constricts and
saturates.
The rains will pour;
the dreaming
recommence.
The words
will
f
o
l
l
o
w .
— C.Birde, 7/17
Hello! I will be taking a short break from my blog and will return in about two weeks. I will continue matching words to images during my absence, and I invite you to look for me at Carrie Birde on Instagram if you should wish. Keep dreaming, and keep creating 🙂
— C.Birde