Gift Box Turtle —
red-jasper-eyed,
wrapped
in gold scrawl
and east-morning
light.
Our paths crossed
at the trail’s
edge –
the gift,
was all
mine.
— C.Birde, 5/18
Gift — An Image
Monochromati-cat — An Image
I will always
sing
my hopes to the Moon,
and whisper —
for safekeeping —
my secrets
to certain
and particular
cats.
— C.Birde, 3/18
Cetaceous Sleep — A Dream
Constricted view, consumed by clear blue sea, purled in white wavelets. Beneath that glittering, glassy surface rests a great, moon-pale shape, its smooth contours distorted by distance, by the sea’s subtle, internal motion. A whale. See the massive, blunt curve of head, dimpled by sealed blowhole; the sleek, muscled immensity of its body; the gradual narrowing and reshaping of form that results in the great, flattened fan of its tail.
With the ocean piled high and deep, drawn up over it, the whale sleeps. Adrift. Blissful. Content.
Soundlessly, the battleship materializes. It is not there; and then – in the next breath, thought, heartbeat – it simply is. Dull gray; wedged front; a single, monolith turret at its center. Obscene in length, the ship hovers – airborne – above the rippled ocean, casts its shadow down and through the sea, over the sleeping whale.
A moment, only, before it descends.
The ship’s keel parts the waves. Its hull flattens the ocean’s surface, sends sheets of water arching, waves thundering seismically away. Immediately, the battleship is swallowed whole and sinks rapidly, crushingly down. A herculean depth charge aimed directly at the creature beneath it.
Impossible, improbable, infuriating silence as the ship gathers downward speed.
Collision is assured.
The whale sleeps.
Unaware.
— C.Birde, 12/17
Improbably Deer — A Dream
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
Thoughts & Wild Rabbits — A Poem
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
Elegy — A Poem
Fallen,
folded.
Blue puddle of wings
and tail —
black-barred, white-tipped —
splashed on
the woodland floor.
Beak tucked
to feathered breast.
Perfection,
furled.
Earthbound.
Bear that elegy –
out,
away,
through green and yellow
leaf-filtered light.
Once-full-throated song —
a flutter,
a wound wedged
under wish-
bone.
— C.Birde, 10/17
Forecast — An Image
Thirteen
striped bands –
black and autumn red.
Thirteen weeks
of winter.
But he intends
no forecast,
searches out
some snug spot
beneath bark or
stone or
fallen tree
under which to
curl and weather
anticipated
freeze.
— C.Birde, 10/6/17
Capriccio — A Poem
tiktik
tika
tik –
Staccato click
of claws
on gravel, grass, stone.
Clink and jingle
of tags,
oval and oblong;
steel burnishing
brass.
Metronomic wag
of tail.
Four fleet feet,
a scant ten pounds,
she sets a lively pace
and pulls me
— up —
the MoUnTaIn.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Girl-Eyed Doe — A Dream
Driving. The road ribboning out ahead, onward. A blur of green trees to the left, cool with shadow, leaves rustling. To the right, open fields echoing the trees’ green pulse.
— She found them in her yard.
The car’s open windows gathering his words; spreading, elongating, lifting them away.
— Two fawns. The mother never returned for them.
On the right, in the distance, a low structure resolving. Beyond the field’s edge – a café. Bright white flash of walls. Glassless window casements stretching from foundation to roofline. Over the low wall, a fawn leaping out one of the wide-open casements. Stick-thin legs extending over grass, bunching, and tangling. The fawn collapsing – an angular heap of pale rust fur within the field.
Crunching of tires on gravel. The car pulling over, stopping on the shoulder. Opening the door. Jumping out. Running across the field, legs eating up ground, arms lifting. Outwards. Toward the fawn.
Don’t be dead don’t be dead.
A woman exiting the café, reaching the fawn and scooping it up. Cradling it in her arms; the fawn, struggling, kicking.
Arriving, breathless, beside them. Noticing, over the woman’s shoulder, the second fawn inside the café, standing on a bistro table.
— So wonderful that you’ve saved them!
The woman stroking the fawn’s narrow skull. The fawn, laying its head against her shoulder, against the spill of her dark hair. She, kissing its forehead.
— It was the only choice.
The woman turning, walking back to the café, setting the fawn down near its twin; draping her arms over each.
Following. Entering the windowed/windowless building. Approaching the table, and the woman, and the fawns. Observing all three slowly turning. Seeing the fawns’ faces clearly. Gasping aloud. Staring at those flat, identically stamped oval faces.
The creatures staring back – fawns with the faces of sober young girls. Ringleted hair tumbling to either side of their large, tufted, twitching ears.
— C.Birde, 9/17
Schrodinger’s Cat-erpillar
Mystery,
wrought of
hardened protein
and spun silk,
it exists
in two states,
twice –
alive and dead;
caterpillar and
butterfly.
Each
a truth entire.
Until
the chrysalis splits
and butterfly
emerges.
Or does not.
Spun silk heart,
not yet hardened,
snug between ribs,
beating in
two states –
Hope and
Dismay.
— C.Birde, 9/17