Crickets’ Song — A Poem

A photo of a swampy meadow filled with greenery, beneath a broad blue sky.
“Rattlesnake Meadow, Summer” — C.Birde, 8/22

I could sleep

away the season’s end,

head upon this pillow

of bronze ferns

& oak leaves turned

the color of doeskin,

Cheek pressed

to this still-green bed

of moss as you sing

against my ear

Please, let me remain

undisturbed until

the heat has passed

Though this means

I must wait

another year to hear

your song.

— C.Birde, 9/22

Glove — A Dream

A close-up photo of an adult cicada.
“Cicada” — C.Birde, 8/22

I wore,

on my right hand,

a glove of cicadas –

glittering,

shimmering,

whirring in patterns

improbable…

A glove of dialogue,

& movement,

& transformation

undeniable…

And when I tried

to release my hand,

my fingers,

of those shrill insects,

they clicked

& chittered

& shifted

& sang;

with buzzing intent,

they bit

& stung;

endured as one;

would not be

shaken off or free,

denied or dislodged,

but rather would

r e m a i n.

— C.Birde, 8/22

Endless — A Poem

A landscape photo of dried earth and clumps of tough, yellowing grasses beneath a white-cloud-filled, rainless, blue sky.
“August Plains” — C.Birde, 8/22

Overhead,

the Dog Star pants

& prowls a sky stretched

blue & rainless,

casts unhurried shadows

upon once-green grasses

stitched through

with summer’s leonine heat

turned rasping,

wheaten.

— C.Birde, 8/22

Here — A Poem

A photograph taken in Rocky Mountain National Park -- foreground of scrubby grasses, middle ground of conifers, background of mountains & bye sky.
“Old Fall River Road,
Rocky Mountain National Park” — C.Birde, 8/22

Locusts

     applaud

our efforts at the fringe

of pinetops & wind

set sharp against

the mountain’s

falling hip,

with thinned

& thinning blue sky

     caught

about our crowns

& wildflowers

nodding,

     sighing at our

earth-dusted feet –

Yes,

oh, yes,

you’re truly

     h e r e.”

— C.Birde, 8/22

“Wildflowers, RMNP” — C.Birde, 8/20

Wood Thrush Wood — A Poem

A photo of an earthen track through a woodland in mid-spring ...
“Wood Thrush Wood” — C.Birde, 6/22

Hands clasped

& pressed

to breast-

bones,

we stood –

enraptured

as Wood Thrush

dropped

each liquid note

down through

the trees’ canopy –

like hope,

like light

then alit

upon the path

before us

& took

his unassuming

bow.

— C.Birde, 6/22