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
Duck the trellis,
its weight of scarlet blooms
and gloss-leafed vines.
Part the clouded,
moonlit night.
Glide –
shadow-like –
along gentle swells of lawn.
Soft, unshorn blades lick and trace,
damp underfoot.
Round the curve of hedge,
and pause –
a glint of light tucked deep
within the dense tracery
of branches’ interweave.
A spark…
a flash of gold.
Gasp.
Step back.
The bird erupts,
vaults skyward.
For a moment,
breaks of moonlight limn
its sloped wings,
the smooth curve
of its delicate head.
A second wing stroke,
a third;
it shifts and changes,
exchanges gentle curves
for lean, sharp lines,
for bladed wings and
hooked beak of raptor.
Lean back,
throat exposed;
follow the small, swift hawk’s
vertical progress.
Meet its hooded,
unblinking stare –
that bright star glinting
against the night’s black
backdrop.
Flinch.
— C.Birde, 10/17
The space,
so recently occupied,
still vibrates —
a scrap of atmosphere
stirred to warmth
by wings and pulse
beating too swift
to measure.
Stare —
cheek flush to heated air
where she speedily
unstitched the seams
of passing breeze
and slipped away,
like summer.
— C.Birde, 8/30/17
Singly and in pairs, they arrive — men and women, dressed in jewel-toned satin and velvet gowns, in embroidered cravats and dark silk tuxedos. They sweep into the ancient, compact castle — more of a turret, in truth, or a fortress. Clustered in small knots about a great length of dining room table, they bloom against the bare, gray stone floor and walls. Soft conversation flickers with candlelight.
But their arrival is earlier than expected. Unprepared, shake each proffered hand. Kiss signet rings, the backs of smooth wrists. Return each smile, each warm greeting. Hear not one comment, nor one remark regarding disheveled hair, tattered clothing, unwashed odor. Surely, they notice. Kindness stills their tongues; propriety.
At last, the number of arrivals diminishes, ceases. Slip away. Slowly, back towards the small door, that ellipse of wood within stone. Quietly, quietly — ease the door open. Steal through the narrow fissure to enter a small, round stone chamber. Softly, pull the door shut. Lean against it.
Spread across the chamber’s floor — rumpled and crumpled and imbued with blue shadows — is a great sweep of strewn white cloth. To the left of the closed door, a stone staircase sweeps upward, follows the tight curve of the turret’s exterior wall. Set foot on the bottommost step. Notice the white cloth shiver and move. A kitten – small, gray-and-white, with the short stand-up tail of the newly born — wriggles out from the fabric’s folds. Mewing, comically determined, it follows along behind, up the steps.
Climb. Five steps. Six. Seven. With the kitten directly behind. See, at eye-level on the steps ahead, a frantic blur of yellow motion. A fledgling canary with curiously long feathers. Scoop the bird up – out of the kitten’s reach. Feel the brush of soft feathers, the tick of small talons against skin. Watch the canary lift up, flutter out and away. Its extraordinarily long wing- and tail-feathers flow like ribbons of sunlight. Over the kitten. Down the steps. To safety.
Continue climbing. Arrive at another small, wooden door. Push. Beyond it, find a circular room with high-vaulted ceiling. White porcelain sink and toilet and bathtub gleam against gray stone walls and floor. A single window stares out into darkness. Across the room, a narrow, arched doorless exit leads down a corridor… Cross the room. Step into that arch of stone-darkened throat. Set hands on a small gate, draw it out from the wall — a makeshift barrier that will lend privacy to the bath.
Again, movement. There, further down the corridor, emerging from the dark — a tall, trim man. Dressed in soft brown tweeds. A bulge beneath his jacket and vest. Approach carefully, step toward him. Peer — curious, eyes squinting — at the lump caught gently, safely against his breast, buttoned up beneath the tweed vest. See a small, smooth-feathered crown; wide gold eyes within a heart-shaped face — a barn owl.
Listen as the man explains: Out on the darkened lawn, far below the castle, five shapes lay motionless as shadow. Each a barn owl — four young, one adult. All but he had passed by, oblivious. None but he had taken note, gone to investigate. Had found one young owl alive amongst the five.
From the deep vee opening of the man’s vest, see the barn owl blink. Smitten, reach out. Stroke the smooth, white-feathered head. Feel the sharp clench and wrench of heart.
— 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
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
She flits
among the underbrush,
shadow clad in shadow.
He sings
in liquid, honeysuckled
light and borrowed notes,
songs un-repetitive,
unrepeatable.
A stroke of shadow,
she huddles
atop a nest of sticks and
grass and ribbons built,
like his song,
in careful,
r a n d o m
fashion.
Chasing
blue jay,
grackle,
awkward young starling,
he repels
any who come too near.
My name,
tucked beneath
their wings,
in their
throats and call —
I answer.
— C.Birde, 6/17
Clad
in admiralty blue,
rank dabbed and denoted
in white and black,
he clutches,
in an executioner’s grip,
the limp featherless form
still pinked with the breath
of recent life.
Cloaked
in delft and gray,
eyes bright with a
sunset captured,
she is pursued and scolded.
And I,
a witness apart,
must remind myself –
there is
no malice present,
nor joy
in the other’s suffering.
There are
no monsters
here.
— C.Birde, 5/17
Standing tall
on slim black legs,
talons pricking
aged granite,
the Mockingbird
flicks his tail,
cocks his head.
He follows my progress
with pearl-gray eye,
listens intently
when I speak.
And once
he has collected
my words,
my intent,
he parses and restates —
more perfectly,
more succinctly,
more beautifully —
in song.
— C.Birde, 5/15
Much is written
of rose-strewn paths;
but I prefer to
tread —
lightly, bare of foot —
the petals
dashed to ground
by recent rain
of the leaning cherry —
still pink,
still damp,
still fragrant.
A blushing robe
discarded;
while nearby,
tucked in switch and
bramble,
the catbirds’ songs
weave and flutter like
scattered, honeyed
light.
— C.Birde, 5/17