Enervation — A Poem

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“Curbside Enervation” — C.Birde, 8/19

 

 

Tempers

and thermals

and solar flares.

Blare of horns

and blacktop’s

creaking heat.

Painted lines

and lines of cars

comprise a gridlock

of intent –

steel and chrome,

flesh and bone;

dismissed,

ignored,

unseen.

Melting

curbside mirage,

dressed in heat-

stirred floral cotton,

she slowly bastes

and enervates

and waits

to cross

the street.

 

 

— C.Birde, 8/19

 

 

 

 

Cicadasong — A Poem

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“Cicada” — C.Birde, 7/19

 

Tymbol roar in treetops’

tossing crowns…

Soloists joined in chorus,

cycles converging

– annual, periodic –

indifferent to expectation;

pausing only to sip

hot nectar of oak and ash,

willow and maple,

between careless verse of

antique songs

– skyward, tossed –

to the panting, radiant

dog star.

 

— C.Birde, 7/19

 

Schism — A Poem

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“Little Hawk” — C.Birde, 9/18

 

Two weeks ago, three weeks early, he said goodbye.

A day after the incident –

Pale streak of feathers with talons, outstretched and efficient

Tangle of cries and silence caught within deer netting and ripening tomatoes

The scene unfolding beyond the bay windows, as, unwilling, I observed and thought (disjointedly) of Casablanca, the words re-working in my head

“Of all the birds, in all the yards, in all the world – the hawk has taken mine”

As I thought (unkindly), while running from the house in futile effort, of the multitude of House Sparrows whose numbers could bear thinning, my cries of negation to stop, avert, reverse the course of events and pluck those yellow claws from that small gray breast and separate the two – Little hawk (Sharp Shinned? Coopers? he will not tell me) from Gray Catbird – to unwind time and heal the wound…

Above me, despite me, beyond my reach and will and pleas, Little hawk wheeled away with his prize – young parent to this year’s only fledgling.

 

The burning bush, previously a-shiver with activity, is still.

The pergola, with its unrestrained clematis vines, remains empty.

The container of raisins sits on the counter, untouched, unshared.

Two weeks ago, three weeks early, he said goodbye —

my small avian friend of untold years —

A day after the incident.

Next year, next spring — so far off —

will reveal if he’ll return

again.

 

— C.Birde, 9/18

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“Catbird” — C.Birde, 9/18

 

August Song — A Poem

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“Clematis Virginiana” — C.Birde, 8/18

 

Song of August…

Summer’s slow

u n s p o o l i n g –

florid and

debauched –

sung in yawns

and thunder…

Staked or trellised,

the vines

untwine and

t

u

m

b

l

e

past

their margins.

The long exhale

arrives –

measured in

the static drone

of insects.

 

 

— C.Birde, 8/18

 

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“Tendrils” — C.Birde, 8/18