Squadron — A Poem

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“Blue Jay” — C.Birde, 11/16


Parting rain and fog, they come full scream,

announcing their arrival, alerting me.

Dressed in crests and admiralty blue,

they arrange themselves in ranks

I can’t discern –

white-tipped blue ornaments

scattered among the pine’s green-fringed limbs,

along the railing and the gutters’ edges;

when I am slow to respond,

on the screen door’s handle.

I’ve read that their coloration is due

to their feathers’ internal structure ,

the result of light interference;

that crushing destroys the feather’s blue –

a questionable desire.

And I’ve read that each individual

wears distinct markings,

a collar of black

encircling the nape of each neck,

dipping down and forward

along each white-bibbed front –

unique as a fingerprint.

Despite these facts, they remain a blur of blue.

The designated caller peers down expectantly

from the gutter’s edge.

We observe each other,

envoys of overlapping kingdoms.

We converse,

and the off-white feathers at his throat

ruffle and stir.

When I send the nut skyward,

he lifts on spread wings and fanned tail.

Fingertips to talons.

Midair he collects my gift, his prize.

The moment joins and connects us.

We are inseparable.


— C.Birde, 11/16



Departure — A Poem

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“Wintering Sky” — C.Birde, 11/16


They uncurl,

upswept like blown leaves

against the wintering sky,

to scrawl their message

in an organization

of wings

that glitter and smoke;

a collective of separate,

weightless bodies

coalescing –

We must leave

       must leave


While the sun yet feeds

their hollow bones

and propels

their starry wings,

that they might return

once the world renews

its tilt and they bear

new songs

to sing.


— C.Birde, 11/16


Seeing Clearly — A Dream

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“Seeing Clearly” — C.Birde, 11/16


Sunlight pours through the second-story window. Pushing the sash up, I kneel before the window and fold my arms against the white-painted sill to peer outside. A slight breeze stirs, carries the perfume of summer fading toward crisp autumn. The scene is familiar – putty-colored sidewalks trundle alongside the grid of intersecting roads; neatly-tended lawns are bound, here and there, by gloss-leafed privet hedges; a scarlet stop sign pins down the corner. But, looking into the yard below, a surprise – a slim tree lifts its branches skyward where no tree has been before. Seemingly overnight, a straight-trunked dogwood has grown, or a cherry, perhaps. It is a glorious sight; more so for the peculiar fruit it bears. Depending from the tree’s arching branches, in an array of bright colors – scarlet, lemon-yellow, orange, cobalt blue, and hyacinth – sprout dozens of reading glasses.



Quicksilver Wish — A Poem



Moonlight caught in tree branches.

“Light Among Branches” — C.Birde, 11/16


Awash in moonlight,

cupping hands and

tipping head to


night-filtered threads;



quicksilver particles to


a wanting core,

I made my wish –


Mind, to broaden,

Heart, to soften,

Hand and

Tongue, to gentle,

Soul, to deepen.

I made my wish

for one




— C.Birde, 11/16


In the Cards — A Dream

April tangles her infant fingers in my hair, and I shift her on my hip to secure my hold about her. The air is cool and crisp. I cross the broad street, enter the park. Though I hurry, the two men – still deep in discussion – quickly outdistance me.

Brightly colored tents crowd the park’s perimeter. I duck and weave quickly along the sandy gravel path, through jugglers, musicians, tight-rope walkers and performers of all kinds, but the two men I pursue are soon swallowed by the crowd. I can no longer see them, doubt I can catch up with them. I slow my hectic pace, catch my breath within fluttering, tree-dappled shade, and coo in April’s ear.

Just ahead, I see a beautiful young woman dressed in green silk gown. A breeze plucks at her sleeve as she dips and arches to extend her arm, to release Tarot cards into the air, one after another. Improbably, the cards revolve above, suspended with their brethren. Craning my neck, I observe the cards – overlarge, nearly the size of placemats, their backs are decorated in Art Nouveau style, edged in gold and twined with vines and bright flowers. They are lovely, seemingly magic as they float overhead, catching light and stirring with breeze. Entranced, I turn slowly in place. I can only see the cards’ backs, not their faces. But as I continue to stare, I realize the cards hang from the surrounding trees by clear, filament threads. In no way does this realization diminish the magic of their effect.

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“In the Cards” — C.Birde, 11/16