Long walk on the beach
the day is as long
as the way home
I hear a gull vomit
Poems on the topic: bird
Poems on the topic “bird” on Poets.by.
Afternoon of a fawn
I watched an indigo bunting on
the topmost branch silhouetted
against the sky: blue
& still more blue. If I told you
all I could see was the yellow of
his bill, would you believe me?
In the bare crown of the elm tree
where a porcupine gnawed all winter,
a hummingbird perches with his back
to an indigo bunting. How odd to see him
sit so still so long, I think, though
his head pivots back & forth the whole
time. The bunting calls & calls.
Could this battered tree with
its foliage like a crazy woman’s skirt
hide two nests? A crow flies sideways,
Right then
Cool morning.
Crystal-clear air carries
a whiff of sewage.
Indigo bunting,
yellow warbler trade songs –
same syllable count.
Chilly morning.
A chipmunk stops to scold
in a patch of sunlight.
One drums, the other yammers:
the pileateds agree
to disagree.
When the sun clears the top
of the tall maple
I’ll go get breakfast.
Birds on a wire
Starlings land
above me, greater
than my aches,
and mew.
Fee
Show me five pieces:
a morning of ash,
a white gull,
a parson wrapped in paper,
a castle of chocolate,
a well at night.
Burroughs
alone in far Tangier
who will have me
a bird in a theater of flags
at night I send a token hand
among the poor
IN THE TEXAS HILL COUNTRY
Making oneself at home in a bone-dry thorn scrub no one else could love & hailing all visitors: this is the golden-cheeked warbler’s perilous way.
Hanging jack
My lute an office
where I expect to walk.
I found a stone in mourning
for the temple.
Bread and butter were discoursing
of the great eater.
I remember a hanging jack
to roast birds—that heat.
I played a while on my lute
and could not kill anything.
Into the Open
an empty space is still data
my phone reminds me
no space is truly empty
a falling leaf reminds me
the time of long shadows
has come ‘round again
cedar waxwings whistle
through bare branches
the low sun catches on wings
in lieu of leaves
rests in a red oak
undressing in the wind
and flickers like an angel
resisting temptation
to follow the leaves down
spinning spiralling
Grace
buzzing on the autumn mountain
an amber alert
a child gone missing
in the middle of my daydream
railroad workers 400 feet below
pause and look at their phones
every morning now
it’s a different landscape
i go home and cut my hair
the missing girl is found
two notes from a wren
get lodged in my inner ear
Forestry
morning of soft sun
and old gold
with the distant yelping
of trucks going backwards
the sound of limestone
being ground down
and a silent jay
going from oak to oak
throat pouch filled with acorns
it flies off east
i follow animal paths
into the afternoon
a gray squirrel buries an acorn
under a laurel bush
sees me watching
and digs it up again
Leaves on Grass
we could’ve been albatrosses
drifting on the wind for years
able to dip into our shadows
which would’ve tasted like salt
we could’ve been playing cards
given darkness a respectable home
instead having loved the sun
and digested light for a living
we meet our shadows
only at death
lie atop them leaching out
our vital bitters
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