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I. L. Salomon, bird, in English Clear filters

SadI. L. Salomon

The Birdless Nest

I have held a bird's nest in my hand And caressed each instinct-woven strand Till my heart asked every empty bough, Who of all the birds is homeless now? Whether it was robin, thrush, or lark Whose tired wings fluttered in the dark, Its senses bankrupt, thrust itself upon My heart as if the bird's heart were my own. Spider web and moss and cat-tail fluff And dandelion down are proof enough No living thing but builds against the deep Inexplicable miracle of sleep
AngryI. L. Salomon

Birds in a Steeple

The jargon well-fed birds proclaim In the uptilted steeple Resounds in the forsaken church Charred black and fireweed purple; Their clamor is an off-key scream, Obstreperous in mid-air, Yet loudest in the wooden arch Where crowded starlings are. Abruptly the assertive whirrs Echo in the empty pews, Nor perish where parishioners Lie stiff in Sunday clothes. Eying his profitable fruit The spoil of thieves, a farmer Counts unrecoverable loot On wing from spire to dormer.
CheerfulI. L. Salomon

Birdsong for Rain

The familiar birds were calling for water, Their unlabored watersong crying for rain, As the unmeditated summer heat Sank in thick swathes on the tumbled grain. Through the lilac bush and abutting maples On the lawn where the house had been leaved Since the roof-tree first appeared on the hill, The thirsting impatient bird-throats grieved. Round as a gold-piece molten in fire, The sun was unambushed flame as the drouth, An imponderable cobra, coiled In crouched rings at the earth's dry mouth. The gathering contrapuntal choir In unspoiled voices proscribed the spell; Sterterous thunder overwhelmed Music—and water fell.
SadI. L. Salomon

Five Clear Eggs

Found: five clear eggs in a flycatcher's nest On the half-screened porch. I didn't know As I finished the job on my day of rest Where the flycatcher was as I uttered, Oh! And what to do with the work complete, And a nest sheared off the high eave's edge? (Alerted in her obscure retreat, No bird dared approach the reachable ledge.) So I left the door of the porch wide open, Left the nest and the threatened eggs alone, Left in pursuit of my perturbed hope in The flycatcher's instinct to claim her own. Unassured, I returned soon after the current Crisis forewarned me all wasn't well; The eggs, white moon to their five ends, weren't Starred in a brooch of nest hair and shell;

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