At 2 pm, doves coo
an afternoon lullaby —
drowsy ticking
drowns out work —
the clock’s face
and leaden hands
fall napping into
the hour’s warm lap —
minutes nod off and
sleepy seconds snore
digesting noon away —
time teeters —
its breathing slows
weighed down by
heavy parts of day —
European starlings
multiply like weeds
they are avian Borg
assimilating resistlessly
they are teenage girls
who will always travel
to the restroom together —
from yellow beaks
oddly alien noises
and so much chatter —
one or two are cute
but the whole crowd
is so flocking loud!
the tiny birdie verdin
wears his heart on his sleeve
and sunshine on his head —
a hyper handsome hopper
with acrobatic feats —
calling chip chip chip
and singing dulcet tsweets
A trio of virile grackles
skyward tilt their bills
puff up blacklit plumage
shriek and cackle and shrill
fan their great-tailed fannies
as knights in shining ardor
they strut around each other
just to try and get the girl!
in the desert southwest
doves call themselves out
and say their own names
in self-identifying syllables —
two in “ink-uh” of the little inca
eurasian’s 3-noted “you-ray-zhun”
four of the “white-wingèd dove”
and the unmistakable five notes
of the song “mourning dove i am”
My favorite weather is bird-chirping weather.
nests bustling in leafy trees
eggs cracking open tenderly
vernal music on the breeze
excitement buzzing busily
tree roots drinking merrily
underground working tirelessly
restless flowers pacing weeds
manufacturing aromatherapies
reds purples yellows greens
poppies blooming endlessly!
my heart is dying
for this gambel’s quail crying
lovesick for a mate
An open window is good company, like the burning candle of Lichtenberg.
“Man loves company even if it is only that of a small burning candle.”
A flock of honking geese
just flew over my city backyard
goosebumps, I got goosebumps
never, ever have I seen this
beautiful feat of nature from
my own little speck I call home
for an awesome morning moment
all my human burdens forgotten
Our bodies are meant
for the sun, the rain
the gusty winds
starlight and moon baths
fresh air and seasons —
so why do we trap ourselves
in indoor cages?
If we can’t hear birds sing
or feel invigorating breezes —
how are we to be refreshed
to heal, to know the world
beyond the borders
of our bodies?
As the nightingale went home in the morning and hung his golden harp on the peg, he said in a bitter tone — ’Let them be sure of this, I will not sing again.’
And his wife came up to him with chirpings and hoppings to soothe him: but nothing availed; it was clear to all that he was bitterly affronted.
Every night he went out and sang his loves to the rose; the night air throbbed and quivered to the sound.
His wife sat at home, and was contented if he was happy; moreover, she thought that, however his love raged, no harm could possibly come of it.
And now at her entreaty he told her of his sorrows, and how deeply he was wounded by what had passed.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! the rose opened her leaves; it seemed to me that the moon rose earlier than her wont.
‘All things listened — all things near and far off listened, save only the youth and maiden who were close to me.
‘I sang sweetly! I sang sweetly! but they only turned and whispered to each other…’
—V. A. R., “An Artist’s Sorrows,” from the Kamschatskan, Poems, 1867
green & light shimmering
dancing in the sunlight
little red fuzzy flames
burn quietly in the breeze
mottled blue patches
of serene springtime sky
blaze beautifully behind
a lively bejeweled scene
medallions of shade and color
twinkle in the afternoon
a mama hummingbird hovers
with wings so fast, silence
is no longer golden — she is
the sounds of the winds
overtake my soul and
carry it far off into the skies
—Terri Guillemets