I do

my best thinking

in Nature’s

company…

although the

thinking

— admittedly —

f

e

e

l

s

like

knowing.

.

.

.

— C.Birde, 5/19

 

 

Arriving in decibels…

in treetop tremor

of birdsong;

in leaf and bud’s

slow creep –

dusted prismatic–

toward full-throated

green refrain;

in skies –

by turns –

glass blue,

then churned

orchestral gray;

in scattered petals’ –

cherry, crabapple –

concentric drift.

Crowned.

Decreed.

Embraced.

Reign.

 

— C.Birde, 4/19

 

 

Shy?

I think not.

Determined,

rather,

to scatter light

in corners

overlooked,

eclipsed,

&

quiet.

— C.Birde, 4/19

 

 

 

Moss

strokes & softens

stone’s

honed edges,

asks little

but to abide,

to

adorn.

 

— C.Birde, 4/19

 

 

Perched

on the wire –

like any dove

or sparrow;

hooked talons

grip,

the line

dips

taut beneath

three pounds

of hollow bones

and feathers.

Alert.

Blunt head hunched

between

folded wing blades.

Yellow gaze

fixates

upon the open field

of fallow meadow

grasses.

Red-tail scans

for any dove

or sparrow’s

passage.

 

— C.Birde, 3/19