They stand — all four of them — in a line;

shoulder to shoulder;

on green-grass sward in fading sunlight;

facing me…

No instruments in hand –

neither mandolin nor fiddle nor cello;

no guitar, no bass, no banjo…

Empty hands clasped together before them,

they stand — all four of them — in a line;

shoulder to shoulder;

on a green-grass sward in fading sunlight;

facing me…

Or is it a photo?

An antique square snapshot,

grown milky with age,

colors evaporating into a wriggle-edged white border

that frames them,

those four young men?

The lighting is wrong, the shadows off…

A dark circle pools at their feet,

conforming to no fixed source, natural or otherwise,

while simultaneously,

their cast shadows stretch from them,

toward me,

so long and lean and solid,

surely,

I should feel the weight of their touch,

heavy as silence…

— C.Birde, 10/20

As in the way of dreams, two realities –

he has died;

he walks, straight and tall, beside me.

In death, two versions, also –

the one, all six-foot-tall of him rolled on his side

and bent in awkward, fetal curl,

hooked in blue-tinged dark to chirping, electric machinery;

the other, seated on ivory leather couch, in sunlight drenched,

a shotgun gripped, tripod-like, between legs and knees;

his long toes feel and finger the trigger’s curve.

In both cases, one consistency –

he is alone.

And yet,

and yet…

Together we walk this long road of soft pale soil

that uncurls toward the huddled town below.

As that unknown hamlet slowly resolves,

he tells me of his death,

his dying;

of the messages he left for her

– the youngest –

to find.

Clues.

Scrawled in small, cramped hand on slips and scraps of paper,

neatly folded into white envelopes to be opened

– one each year –

on his death day’s anniversary.

We walk together, he and I.

I hear his voice — a rasp against my ear —

and the ocean’s waves that break themselves

against gray sea walls.

And, as in the way of dreams,

though separated by time, location, distance,

I see her

– the youngest –

in open room full of soft-lit windows;

see her lean against that same couch of ivory.

Though separated,

I see her finger run beneath an envelope’s flap and

break the seal.

Excitedly, she reads;

while he and I reach the outskirts of that sleepy town.

Here, the air smells of salt and sea.

Here, the wind finds my hair, my cheek.

And here, undeterred, he walks beside me;

but no longer does he

speak.

— C.Birde, 8/20

Seven months

since last we met.

Five months since…

Since…

Yet even in passing glance,

even at distance –

familiar.

Stature & gait;

wave of dark, curled hair;

eclipse of cheek –

familiar.

The shade of dress alone

speaks of difference –

uncharacteristic green

of emeralds,

of deep woods

thickly forested in memory

& being.

A color that suits you,

becomes you.

But…

Away, you stride,

path cleared of obstacles.

Unshackled.

Freed.

And I –

bumped & jostled

by this noisome,

swallowing

crowd –

though I call out,

though frantically,

I wave,

you neither see nor hear;

continue on your

way.

I missed you.

I miss you.

Seven months

since last we met.

Five months since…

Since…

— C.Birde, 7/20

We danced.

O, how we danced…

Our bodies lightly pressed

& touching at wrists,

forearms,

elbows,

hips.

We danced

through a room cluttered,

crowded with tables & chairs;

with people

disinterested,

distracted,

curious.

We danced.

His lead so assured,

so easy to follow

that my step

never

f a l t e r e d.

— C.Birde, 7/20