Capture — A Dream

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“Capture” — C.Birde, 7/17

 

Wrestle him to the ground. Feel the hard bite of blacktop on hips, shoulders, elbows. Knuckles rasp and bleed. Bruises form. These facts are fleeting, unimportant. Scuffle and roll. Work to pry the camera from his grip. This is no easy task, for Alec Baldwin is determined – and large. But the camera isn’t his; it belongs to the little girl. She mourns its loss, boards the bus with her mother, weeping. The bus idles for a moment at the curb, signals blinking, tailpipes emitting smoke.

Prize the camera from Baldwin’s hands, and rise triumphant, sweating and panting. Watch the bus pull away. It chugs down the street, slowly gathers speed. Must return the camera to the little girl. Jump onto another bus before its accordion doors can close. Stand on the steps in the open doorway. Right hand clutches the camera. Left hand grasps the metal handhold, cool and smooth to the touch. Lean past the doorway, through the narrow gap into the open air.

Slowly, the bus gathers speed. Breeze whips against flesh, tangles hair. Squint to see. Velocity increases in increments – thirty miles an hour, forty, fifty-five, seventy-five. The camera’s lens cap careens wildly against its black nylon tether, cracks against ulna and radius. Cling to camera and handhold both. Remain anchored. Do not lose hope. Even as traffic lights interfere with pursuit. Even as the distance between buses yawns and increases. Reunion of camera and girl is guaranteed. Success is imminent.

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

Rumors — An Image

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“Asiatic Daylily” — C.Birde, 8/17

 

On the languid summer breeze,

carried by the breath of trees,

I heard a rumor —

that if one is patient enough

and still enough

for long enough,

the diminutive and dainty

Asiatic Daylily

will alight in one’s

outstretched palm

and sing.

Well worth the effort,

for its pitch

is perfect.

— C.Bird, 8/17

 

Mirages — A Poem

 

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“Expectation” — C.Birde, 8/2/17

 

Shrill summer —

heady spell of drama,

pushed and pulled

to extremes.

A full-throated

shout

of heat and light and

expectation,

swollen

beyond tolerance.

Cicadas rehearse

their one-note

chorus,

and sparrows leave

shallow depressions

beneath the hedge

to mark

their baths of dust.

Disconnected,

we hide and bemoan

the heat,

impoverished time,

our stillborn

dreams.

 

— C.Birde, 8/2/17

 

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“Dust Bath” — C.Birde, 8/2/17

 

Constriction — A Poem

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“Constriction” — C.Birde, 7/17

Clouds

blur the horizon,

smudge

the crooked line

defining

here and there,

then and now.

Slowly,

the crows return

to roost

in the evergreen’s

upswept boughs,

their wings glossy,

inked with words

unwritten.

The sky inhales,

constricts and

saturates.

The rains will pour;

the dreaming

recommence.

The words

will

f

o

l

l

o

w .

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

Hatchlings — An Image

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“Sparrow Hatchling” — E.Noel, 7/17

 

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

 

 

Drench — An Image

 

 

Drench
“Drench” — C.Birde, 7/17

 

 

The rain fell

with the impatience

of countless

drumming

fingers.

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

 

 

 

 

 

Equivalencies — A Poem

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“Eastern Chipmunk” — C.Birde, 6/17

 

If you have one chipmunk,

you have three;

If you have three chipmunks,

you have fifteen;

If you have fifteen,

they will call the day’s news,

in rapid fire staccato,

from the garden bench;

and beneath the old miniature rose;

and from the corner behind the garage

by the rain barrels.

Most likely,

they will excavate

a complex system of tunnels

beneath the side steps

to the converted back porch,

and divert

the flow of fallen rain that

— recently, mysteriously —

began weeping through

the house’s north facing

hundred-plus-year-old

basement wall.

They will expect peanuts,

and will make their requests

from under the lavender hedge;

and beneath the curled, green ferns;

and from all corners

of the house and yard and garden.

Keep a number of nuts tucked

in your pockets at all times,

though this will not prevent them

from heedlessly running

over your bare feet and toes

when you open the door

and stand on the side steps

with that offering.

If you see one chipmunk,

you may see three;

If you see three chipmunks,

you may well see fifteen;

And if you see fifteen,

you had best have your

inter-species agreements

quickly drawn up and notarized,

for the benefit of all,

by a neutral third party.

(The Nuthatch, perhaps.)

— C.Birde, 7/17

Sassafras — An Image

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“Sassafras” — C.Birde, 6/17

 

 

With our backs pressed

to the smooth, silver trunk

of the Beech,

We’ll sip sassafras tea

and decipher the patterns

of steam

scrawled

upon the fragrant

morning air.

 

— C.Birde, 6/17

 

Green Tonic — A Poem

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“Fern Wood, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17

 

The crush and shout

of the larger world

persists

beyond these fringed,

green borders

where, time and again,

I return

to drink

the Wood Thrush’s tonic

of sung sunlight,

to feel

the fern’s frill-lipped

cool breath against

my calves,

to absorb the drum and patter

of rain upon

the woods’ sheltering

green canopy.

I come to cleanse myself –

of grief and pain and worry;

to drench myself

in green.

 

— C. Birde, 6/28/17

 

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“Wooded Path, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17