“Wind Tossed” — C.Birde, 2/19
Angry wind,
hungry wind –
wresting fealty
from trunk
and limb
and ragged
crown.
Inside,
ignore serrated
howls…
Count each
breath –
one in,
one out.
For each limb
sundered,
plucked, and
tossed —
in one,
out one,
outward and
unbounded.
Bless
the sheltering
trees.
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Snowdrops” — C.Birde, 2/19
No one
marks Time
like
Nature.
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Mosaic” — C.Birde, 2/19
I have nothing.
I have nothing left.
I have nothing left to say.
My words,
a song of rust
brushed against
an ear
unhearing,
turned away.
Absorbed
in conflict and
distraction.
Take your ease
in your unease.
I have nothing.
I have nothing left.
I have nothing
left to say.
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Knife” — C.Birde, 2/19
Drop the knife.
There, in the grass,
where the dirt path
crumbles away.
Eight-inches of steel –
sharp as tongues;
full tang clasped
between worn halves
of oiled mahogany.
Blade among blades.
It sings when drawn
over stone.
Old knife.
Older than you.
Knife of Dwayne Young.
Left in a drawer of the stone
house Dwayne built for his
wife. She never joined him
there – preferred the one-
room cottage at the back of
the property. In 1964, your
father married your mother,
bought Dwayne’s house.
Found the knife. In 1988, he
passed the knife along. To
you. A series of partings.
Forgettings. Accidental.
Intentional. Drop the
knife. They’re coming.
Don’t be implicated
Leave it there.
In the grass.
Walk away.
You’ve done
nothing
wrong.
Let
go
.
— C.Birde
“Essence” — C.Birde, 2/19
Sow Love.
Love
so.
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Pack” — C.Birde, 2/19
We
are a pack,
intimately formed,
with no clear
Alpha,
that role shifting
as easily as
want
need
demand
arises.
Each retains
full memory of arrival,
of introduction
to this flesh —
an ache,
a break,
a humbling of self
denied,
resisted,
at long length
accepted.
Inseparable.
Tippy and Horse;
twins Thumbelina
and Paige;
Daisy, Tippy’s heir.
A tangle of mortality,
we comfort each other,
lick our wounds
as one.
We are
a pack.
— C.Birde, 2/19
Escort asset — female, mid twenties, fresh-faced, attractive — through the building to safety by way of the escalator. Asset’s stress is palpable. Maintain composure.
Why?
Why must we do this?
So frightened…
Building identified — open, airy plaza; glass walls; floors, a hard light speckled tile; crowded. Approach with care. Stay alert.
So exposed.
So many people.
Enter through glass doors on the building’s north side. Bright sunlight reflects off multitudinous surfaces – tiles, windows, counters. Escalator identified — dead ahead; moves steadily toward upper level. No cover. Flank asset. Guide her. Toward the escalator. Through crowd.
NOT people… Doesn’t anyone see?
Their faces…shift from human to… insectoid…
Red-fleshed, huge iris-less eyes, proboscis-like mouths protrude
from bulbous heads…
Shift back…
Threat identified! Close ranks. Weapons ready. Pick up the pace. Press forward to the escalator. Move!
Dizzy… Nausea rising…
Spreading… Thinning…
Falling apart… Flying apart…
Hold! Hold! Fall back! Maintain perimeter! Asset… changing — whole, solid no longer… Becomes a sudden swell of light, brighter and brighter, blinding…
Someone… Anyone…
Asset, engulfed in light — is light — shifts out of register, seems to occupy multiple dimensions… Identifiable… streaming light, seems smeared over the surrounding area in great broad strokes from center.
* h e l p *
It’s over people! It’s over! Fall in! Fall in!
Feel the ‘snap’… the ‘returning’… like a blow.
Dizzyness remains. Nausea remains.
Weak limbed. Breathless.
Stay on target! Fall in! Threats at 10 o’clock… 2 o’clock… Close ranks! Move move move! To the escalator! Flank her! Ahead and behind! Not through yet! Look alive, people! We don’t know what’s up there!
Happening again… Too soon…
Can’t… hold…
together…
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Foreverglades” — C.Birde, 2/19
We sang our way
to the everglades —
earth and water
unfolding,
enfolding;
lungs full of endless sky.
And the landscape
sang chorus —
forever,
forever,
foreverglades.
— C.Birde, 2/19
“Everglades, Heron” — C.Birde, 2/19
“Hourglass” — C.Birde, 2/19
My hourglass heart
breaks
each day
with each grain
of sand –
a grief,
a fear,
a pain —
that sifts through
that narrow
passage,
scours its way —
down,
down, and
down.
A small drift
of bruises
collects.
Invert the glass –
me,
my heart –
and shoosh,
the process starts
again.
One chamber
empties,
the other fills;
a cycle
unabating.
— C.Birde, 2/6/19
Nightjars & Damselflies 