Heard
before seen,
that bird of prey
small Hawk perched
atop bare maple
Seen
before felt,
the lift & dive,
wings stretched wide
in flight
Felt
before known —
Ribs’ cage, opened
Muscled heart, unlocked
Patience,
perspective,
awareness invited
in.
— C.Birde, 2/23
Reality
unfolds around us,
but we hide
our flowered heads
in denial.
Daffodils
in January…
— C.Birde, 1/23
Oh, falling sky – pieces of blue
tipped black & white & falling
Crying bright reply to peanuts
clacking against dark shingles
& rattling aluminum gutters,
white painted.
Jay-filled sky in blue shadows
falling toward my outstretched
hand, emptied now, but hope-
fueled.
— C.Birde, 12/22
The snowbirds
have returned –
those flitting,
avian shadows,
bow-tie tailed
& dapper;
flown in on
the new moon’s
dark veil
to releaf
the beeches’ bare,
uplifted boughs
in monochrome
& song.
— C.Birde, 11/22
Upon
a bed of seeds,
she rests,
folded within
the blue globe’s
hollow,
cracks open
striped hulls
& eats
But,
at my approach,
a l a r m –
shell fragments
scatter
She seeks escape,
rehatches
her small self
on wings
unfurled,
stretched
o u t.
— C.Birde, 11/22
Plume
of light amongst
the blown seed heads
Bright
memory of self,
what is,
what was,
what again will be.
— C.Birde, 11/22
Clouds
of bee-pricked asters
hum
while your voice –
frilled in petals
& promises –
carries
beyond the window’s
tidy panes,
weaves
through the bloom
& sway of October’s
violaceous hue
And
though I reach
for you,
this separation –
seen,
unseen –
remains.
— C.Birde, 10/22
Run, run, run
run free,
unfettered by mortality’s
pale restraints as,
when first we met,
you ran,
Electron made flesh
in four fleet paws that,
for seventeen years,
obliged earth’s gravity
in jovial orbit.
Run, run, run
run free with yip &
click & jingle, & leave us,
dear Josie,
to the heartbreak
& surreality of your
departure.
— C.Birde, 10/22
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
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
Nightjars & Damselflies 