1 2 3
rain runs birdsong pushes all that falls
like a chant music here and now
in my head out of trees is dusk
* * *
making it through the journey in our time:
generations will remember singers die
from knowing we outlive grief songs live
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5 comments:
Powerful last two lines.
Nice.
On the drive to work, I try to find a wild creature and notice what it is doing. Most of the time, I notice birds. Red-wing blackbirds are nesting, hawks are hunting, crows are menacing. But it always makes me wonder what it was like before the Victorian feather craze, before Audubon killed all the birds to make pretty pictures, before Europeans stole the land and tamed it. What was the birdsong like? How many birds flocked the trees? Was it loud from dawn to dusk? And it makes me sad and I pay even more attention to our winged friends on my next car ride.
I love the structure of this poem, how it is readable and meaningful no matter how one chooses to read it.
Thank you, Steph!
Thanks, Gillian!
Engie--Oh! Yes... Rightly or wrongly, I think of birds as being delicate so I worry about them and their migratory patterns because of the climate crisis, etc. Some of the facts you mentioned are fascinating! Is there a book you'd recommend?
Nance--Thank you! It seemed like musical scales to me for that reason...
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