
Twin-horned
crescent Moon,
bright curve of line
pressed
against the sky;
a wink,
a knowing smile,
worn within
the heart’s
still-beating chambers.
Crone and maiden both.
There is
no
dilemma.
— C.Birde, 12/16

Twin-horned
crescent Moon,
bright curve of line
pressed
against the sky;
a wink,
a knowing smile,
worn within
the heart’s
still-beating chambers.
Crone and maiden both.
There is
no
dilemma.
— C.Birde, 12/16

Moss —
tiny, ancient, uncomplicated;
toiling underfoot to
build soil and
purify air.
We tread in thunder,
unaware.
— C.Birde, 12/16

Parting rain and fog, they come full scream,
announcing their arrival, alerting me.
Dressed in crests and admiralty blue,
they arrange themselves in ranks
I can’t discern –
white-tipped blue ornaments
scattered among the pine’s green-fringed limbs,
along the railing and the gutters’ edges;
when I am slow to respond,
on the screen door’s handle.
I’ve read that their coloration is due
to their feathers’ internal structure ,
the result of light interference;
that crushing destroys the feather’s blue –
a questionable desire.
And I’ve read that each individual
wears distinct markings,
a collar of black
encircling the nape of each neck,
dipping down and forward
along each white-bibbed front –
unique as a fingerprint.
Despite these facts, they remain a blur of blue.
The designated caller peers down expectantly
from the gutter’s edge.
We observe each other,
envoys of overlapping kingdoms.
We converse,
and the off-white feathers at his throat
ruffle and stir.
When I send the nut skyward,
he lifts on spread wings and fanned tail.
Fingertips to talons.
Midair he collects my gift, his prize.
The moment joins and connects us.
We are inseparable.
— C.Birde, 11/16

A dark house,
on a dark hill,
on a dark night,
with but one light
in a topmost
window,
aglow…
–C.Birde, 11/16

They uncurl,
upswept like blown leaves
against the wintering sky,
to scrawl their message
in an organization
of wings
that glitter and smoke;
a collective of separate,
weightless bodies
coalescing –
We must leave
must leave
leave
While the sun yet feeds
their hollow bones
and propels
their starry wings,
that they might return
once the world renews
its tilt and they bear
new songs
to sing.
— C.Birde, 11/16

Always,
always in motion;
even those rare moments
we remember
to pause…
— C.Birde, 11/16

Awash in moonlight,
cupping hands and
tipping head to
drink
night-filtered threads;
Impatient,
awaiting
quicksilver particles to
penetrate
a wanting core,
I made my wish –
Mind, to broaden,
Heart, to soften,
Hand and
Tongue, to gentle,
Soul, to deepen.
I made my wish
for one
and
All.
— C.Birde, 11/16

Spill of
clouded light
emblazoned across
the sweep
of south-facing
sky.
— C.Birde, 11/16

Bittersweet Autumn —
delicious tang of
gold, rust and ochre,
crisp toasted
and rustling
with each step,
served up
on a broad plate
of astonishingly
blue sky.
— C.Birde, 11/16

She is loveliest
the moment
before
she
fades.
— C.Birde, 10/16