Iterations — A Dream


“Iterations” — C.Birde, 7/18


He stands just behind my right shoulder – a young man, so comfortable in his own skin, his presence adds inches to his height. And, in six-year-old guise, he clutches my left hand as tightly as his young strength allows. The nine-month-old him sprawls, arms and legs akimbo, in complete abandon on the bed’s rumpled sheets; while he-at-twelve sits on the edge of the same bed with arms defiantly crossed about his narrow torso – purposefully, he avoids my eye, assures himself that I know this. Finally, there, in a knot of sheet spilled upon the floor, is his smallest and youngest form – a red faced, yowling and inconsolable, thumb-sized infant whose continuous, shrill shriek drives all ability to think from my skull.


— C.Birde, 7/18


Awake — A Poem


“Awake” — C.Birde, 7/18


Patient night —

with winking, starless

eye and

half-moon smile —

She conducts

the crickets’ song,

distorted by the hum

from window fan,

by ceiling fan’s

arrhythmic tick…


beneath it all,

the thought-loop whirs,

that well-oiled

Mobius strip of

shoulds &

woulds &

musts &


Loop and whir.


Night’s darkness thins,

rinsed pale and


by dawn’s soft steps.

Tomorrow —

surely —

sleep will



— C.Birde, 7/18


Cats & Rabbits, Kittens & Kits — A Dream


“”Kits & Kittens” — C.Birde, 7/18



As I descend the cellar steps

and pause but halfway down

to peek below…

a warm light flows

from windows

recessed high up

in smoothed cement walls

that peer out over

grass-green lawn.

This basement space –

large and open as it is,

its floor a level plane

of low-pile carpet –

lacks most namesake objects.

No furnace here,

nor workbench,

hot-water heater, or

storage shelves.

It is not, however,


A score of cardboard boxes

the area defines,

pushed against the walls,

and at its center cluster.

And each box —

by cat with kittens,

or a rabbit and her kits —

is occupied.

Each mother tends her litter –



nurturing –

in unworried fashion.

Paused upon the stairs,

I hear the unbroken,



Back up those stairs

I creep so

I do not



— C.Birde, 7/18




Sky Writing — A Dream


“Meadow” — C.Birde, 7/18


Broad and blue as water, the sky floats above a lush green meadow tossed with wind-stirred wildflowers. Calm. Lovely. Pastoral. On the horizon, beyond hill and grass and flowers, a low line of white vapor forms — lifts and drifts, expands.

A word, born of white cloud; mist-edged yet distinct. Gently, it wafts upward, pushed higher by another word. Then another. Until the words stretch and elongate in height, and the sky is inscribed in pale, loose-formed text. A second line follows, then a third and a fourth. The lines scroll upward, and soon, the sky — from horizon to vault — is filled with perfectly-formed cloud words.

Over there, amongst the sky-written page, floats the word: “Flowering”.

Below that: “in and beyond”.

And there, adrift together: “peace” and “time”.


— C.Birde, 7/18


Summer Fiction — A Poem

Sun Dial

“Sun Dial” — C.Birde, 7/18


Promises –

measured in fireflies,

rising mercury,

night’s contraction;

Illusion –




There will be more


Causal & corollary,

the tasks increase –

with each coveted inch

of light,

each slow-tracking bead

of sweat.


Fever dream.

Summer fiction.


— C.Birde, 7/18