Sly wink and glide,
she eludes
his fiery grasp,
and scatters
her Cheshire grin
in countless
bright crescents
to mark her passage.
No portents here.
Rather,
a coy,
lunar sway
as,
smoothly,
she slips before
his wide,
unblinking
eye.
— C.Birde, 8/17
Together, apart
we weep.
Vision clears,
Hearts reforge,
we cleave a path toward Love,
toward Compassion,
toward Unity —
apart, together.
— C.Birde, 8/17
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
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
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
His hands,
so young and full
of potential —
open as his heart —
repaired the gap
and gently scooped
the hatchling up,
slipped it,
with a silver spoon,
back into
the nest.
— C.Birde, 7/17