Little Dog Walks — A Poem

An overhead photo of a little brown dog (and one of her human's feet) standing in green grass and clover.
“Stand & Walk” — C.Birde, 9/22

Near

the stop sign’s

scarlet flare,

our feet

in a depth

of green,

green

grass

Patient –

     sensing,

     feeling,

     recollect-

     ing steps

we stand

& wait for

the sweep

of Autumn’s

mournful

wings

to      p a s s.

— C.Birde, 9/22

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

Traffic — A Dream

An artfully altered photo of cars set against a mural background.
“Traffic” — C.Birde, 8/22

No matter

that I have no map,

no navigation system…

that the warp & weft

of intersecting highways

remains incomprehensible,

& the frantic push & pull

of traffic sweeps me along

with tidal force…

that strobes of light –

red & white & cautionary

yellow –

stream past in a confusion

of glancing blurs

reflecting off windshields,

steel-gray paneled bodies,

side- & rearview mirrors

dim with rain & half-light…

No matter.

I have foreseen

my arrival,

     all the same.

Woodlawn,

     I am coming.

— 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

Excavation — A Dream

An artfully altered photo of a romantically derelict Irish castle.
“Cathedral” — C.Birde, 7/22

We ascend the gradual slope

of polished stone set between

transparent knee walls

(fingers trailing

brushed aluminum rails)

& leave behind

the noise & commotion

of lights & shops & cafés,

the bustle of others’ motion

& intent.

Here,

we pause to peer beyond

the glass-walled enclosure

of dark earth,

excavated oh so long ago;

to peer at the ancient stone-

boned cathedral held within.

Ghostly spires rise through

dusted half-light;

buttresses span a space of time

unmeasured;

battered curtain walls defend

the sacred, hollow space within.

Alone.

Solitary.

No witnesses, but we –

he

&

me.

— C.Birde, 7/22

An Absence of Color — A Poem

“Shadow” — C.Birde, 7/22

I will wear black…

The soot black

of ravens,

of crows…

The buff black

of bears’ rigor…

The inky black

of the New Moon’s

star-pricked night

as I mourn.

And,

within the depth

of my dark garment,

I will collect intent

until my shadow –

feathered in light –

blooms

in colors all

its own.

— C.Birde, 7/22