Category: Birds

fledgling

when you leave
the sun will bake
your newly hatched feet
the world, unbroken
will beckon
each perch, a promise
as you fledge into the living air
eyes shining, head cocked
curious

we’ll watch, keeping still
as the sweltering day
wary of the endlessness
that stretches above and below
our nest, empty at the center
of that old pear tree
the place where safety
comprised the circumference
of your understanding

until now

with possibilities expanding
you’ll stretch mottled feathers
and glide
to where the seed waits
it will feel like pebbles
shifting under your small weight
satiated, you’ll fly again
into the open air, your exit
the path up and out

autumn waits
then winter
beyond this heat, beckoning
an ancient part of your soul
driving you to the place
where the palm trees grow
and the water shines
like sapphire







the eagle and the heron

the heron glides
on silent wings
outstretched—
curtains of dusky blue
that gather the air
like an indrawn breath
and, exhaling
with one vast thrust
of endless feathers,
she rides the wild updraft
long neck tucked, S-shaped
above a narrow breast
landing, stalking
the shallow outskirts
of the river’s bounty
with focused stealth
waiting
always waiting

the eagle, vigilant
sharp-eyed, predatory
all talons and beak
her jagged edges, perched
atop the places that divide
beginnings and endings
the thresholds—
where water meets land
earth meets sky
until the hunt;
a blur of chestnut feathers
she’s crowned
head and tail
in white, grasping
with golden feet
each squirming fish
a piece of glistening fruit






Mourning Doves

The doves have no majesty
they squabble like children
lording over the seed
running across the frozen ground like chickens
tiny heads thrust forward
pecking each other
and the excess that tumbles down,
released by the blue-crowned jay

Doves have no shame
they are pigeons in pale costume
crowding the finches and cardinals
chasing them from their breakfast

Yet when their coo-coo-cooing
speaks to my melancholy
all is forgiven

I wonder what soul scarring tragedy
taught them their song

What monumental loss
wove the sadness into each feathered soul
so that it stayed with every dove
through the endless turning seasons
until, at last, they brought it my yard
where it resonates with my shattered heart

September Lament

it’s hard to believe how close we are
to autumn

but the birds
are hunkered down within the canopy
feeling their molt

the vibrant forest, the wild grass
that skirts this overgrown road
will fade and wither

as the sky dulls
and the goldfinches
lose their gleam

you have to hold onto life while you can,
onto the full thrust of it
in the saturated vibrancy of late August
when the heat hangs in the air
like a shroud
as the mosquitoes drill for oil
in your veins

you have to hold on
soon, the chill will return
turning the forest to stone

Crows Returning

Why envy the crows?
but I do
I saw them once
returning to some hidden spot
within the chaotic rise
of unnamed hills
a staccato of black bodies
angling above the last trace
of the suburbs, where
sparse houses sprawl
along a country road
like jagged teeth.

They know where the land takes over
where rural yards turn wild
arcing into the hillside’s curved neck
where bears stumble down
lured by careless souls
and their unprotected garbage
where adventurous hikers disappear,
and sometimes don’t return

That place
where the crows go
may be the last bit
of hard-scrabble, untamed wilderness
in this entire cultivated country

It welcomes them in kinship
gliding like bits of dark shadow
into the fold of the ridge

Advice To A Baby Bird

Food is your first priority,
but there’s danger from above and below.
Remember, each meal could be your last
and the rain that quenches your thirst
will just as easily drown you.

Watch for shadows, but don’t jump at them
lest you waste your hard-won energy
on a Jay instead of a raptor.

Be wary of the cowbird’s eggs
which borrow precious space,
at the expense of your brood.
Be mindful of starlings,
jealous souls with murderous intent.
They’ll kill your young
to make room for their own.

Wind is as deadly to newborn chicks
as stray cats and lawnmowers.

Don’t take time for granted.
You may have a year or three or five,
but remember we are birds,
born to die too soon,
so fly often and with joy.

If you learn the language of the sky
you may survive to perch
on the highest branch of the tallest pine
and rub your beak against
the mountain’s cold spine
only then will you understand
that your life is not small or fleeting,
but as endless as the web
that holds the world together.

A Soft Lamenting

I hear the cardinals before I see them, loitering in wineberry vines coated white from the evening storm. I wonder if they’re speaking to me, their lilting voices muted by the fresh snow. I count three, moving through my yard like bright fire.

The sky lightens as I push piles of snow from the platform feeder and replenish the seed. When I walk away, the birds come. Their chatter ripples through the trees, a gentle wave.

I’ll name them all before I go inside, letting them know I see them, telling them to take the proffered food.

Dark eyed juncos (my little penguins), house finches, mourning doves, blue jays, one hairy woodpecker and one downy, white-throated sparrows with their sweet, plaintive song, the Carolina wren who loves the suet, a passing flock of red-winged blackbirds (easily startled), black-capped chickadees (small and bold).

Yesterday, a sharp-shinned hawk perched outside my window, its fierce eyes trained on the sparrows. As I watched, it let out a lonely, piercing cry that I’m sure was meant for me.

Distraction

I only want to watch the birds
as they flock to the feeders,
a wave of feathers and sleek bodies
vying for a spot.

At noon the finches fill up my porch
with possibility–
dropping down like strange leaves
breathing in the cold air,
living motion.

As winter beats against them,
they flock–
keeping warm with expanded feathers
shaking the dew from their backs
glowing with the challenge of survival.

The birds are impervious to tragedy
but they must know loss,
they must–
On the glittering snow
the mourning doves cluster
to dig for the seed that falls
and their round bodies
melt the surface of my frozen yard.

A Long Time Ago

I dreamed of hummingbirds
and a field of flowers
painting the yard behind my house
Purple and pink and white
But when I woke, the ground still clung to winter,
and there were no hummingbirds
drifting through naked branches.

If I close my eyes I can see their wings,
a blur of busy motion, lost between worlds,
hovering on threads of time and space
carrying souls to the other place.

Out of mist and early morning light
when sunrise is a heartbeat away,
when night fades like the end of sleep,
I might see them
suspended above the trumpet vine
and sweet honeysuckle.

12/10/17

Birds In Winter

12/17/2017

I only want to watch the birds
as they flock to the feeders:
finches, sparrows, chickadees…
dropping down like strange leaves,
stealing themselves against the chill,
keeping warm with puffed feathers,
shaking the snow from their backs,
defiant with the challenge of survival.

They seem impervious to tragedy
but they must know loss.
They must.

I see it in the way the mourning doves cluster,
beneath the hoppers, cooing, wary
I scattered the seed for them
so I can watch their round bodies
melt the surface of my frozen yard.