Bird watching

A poem

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Bird watching

Photo by Lars Kuczynski

Laughs emit in the easy way
we are each supposed to be,
as if the song of the cardinal
and the song of the robin
were not written to harmonize.

Styles of time decree
so here we stand,
one large flock
on the edge of a marsh
dressed in a great blue heron’s plumage.

Of course, the heron is magnificent,
that is not the question.
The bright orange knife of a beak
and wide set fire kiln eyes,
the sway of the stately neck
soft in wispy fringe,
strength and icy blue of the back
spread into wings of ocean feathers
even a peacock would be proud of.
Beauty but hunter
in one stunning collection.                 

But I am not a heron.
Perhaps only one or none
that converge in this place really are.
Not all of us stand four feet tall
and spread wings six feet tip to tip.

Look closely at me
and look closely at you.
There is red hidden in the grey
of the female cardinal’s wings.
Robins even dress in layers
and stay for winter.
Crows caw with wisdom
no one wants to hear.
The hawk may be a loner
but watch the way he climbs in circles
without a beat of his wings.

Flutter, flitter,
float, fly.

Bright, brilliant,
pensive, prayerful.

Cling, crowd,
stand, soar.

Open and free.
Evermore.

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Thank you for reading! If you are so inclined, leave a comment about what strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read. I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and within a week I will be following up with a Reflection post on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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