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Posts Tagged ‘bird’

Yes

 

 

It could happen any time, tornado, earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.

                       — Yes, William Stafford

 

 

It’s Saturday and I’m choosing to sit on a broken fence,

the logs all weathered and fallen.

I am choosing to sit in the sun on a broken fence

beside a dirt parking lot in a high desert.

Perhaps I do not really believe

that this is the only moment that matters?

Perhaps I don’t trust that I could be gone,

that all life could be gone in one blink,

in one bomb, in one meteorite.

 

Or is it that I choose to sit on a broken fence

beside a dirt parking lot with the scent of pine

edging each breath and the sound

of cottonwood leaves rustling then stilling

because this, too, matters, this willingness

to treat each breath as if it were the first,

to treat each place as if it is the last

and give it my full attention. To be like the birds

sitting on the barbed wire knowing now, now

is the moment to sing.

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One Rusty

 

 

 

stumbling through

the Moonlight Sonata

while outside the window

a twilight birdsong—

not one note out of place

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From eggs

the size

of small

jelly beans

come these

two beaks

that peak

beyond the

edge—today

they save

me, these

two tiny

wingless things.

Even this

bruised heart

remembers how

to marvel.

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Absence

 

 

The bluebirds return.

It never occurs to me to chastise them for leaving.

It’s what they do.

 

All day, I think

of their shallow wing beats,

their slow flight,

 

their bright blue fluttering,

and how easily, how instantly yesly

my heart rises up to meet them.

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One Trick

 

 

seeing them on the branch

the bright yellow tanagers

gone until summer

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driving past the great nests,

my mind fills in the empty air—

dozens of blue heron wings

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surrounded by the most

lovely silence

the crow

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bird in the cage

so intently singing

its sad, caged song

never noticing

the door long ago opened

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Across the yard, below

the cliffs, and just beneath the evening’s

drift toward darkening, above

the river, through the trees,

there is, if you are lucky,

a slender moment charmed

by chance when, if you look up,

the great blue heron

will angle past on slanting wing

and make you question

everything.

 

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One Sermon

 

 

 

beneath the meadowlark,

the fencepost turns pulpit—

praise, praise, praise

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