Remember — An Image

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“Remember” — C.Birde, 6/18

 

Count

the shades of green.

Consider —

shifts of light,

and breeze-stirred

leaves…

Count again.

Again.

Until birdsong fills

that over-muscled organ

secured beneath

protective ribs.

Until the memory

surfaces —

This

is

the way.

 

— C.Birde, 6/18

 

 

 

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Releasing Magic — A Dream

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“Releasing Magic” — C.Birde, 6/18

 

All is dark. Claustrophobic. All but the unicorn.

Though caught in stone, the unicorn positively radiates — light and motion pulse through and over its rearing form. Its front legs churn the darkness, and its forelock, mane, and tail are caught and curled and tumbled by unseen currents. The tip of its scrolled horn reaches 10 feet high, and its dark eyes shine. Here and there, its paint is worn, burnished by the touch of admirers long forgotten. It is a magnificent creation, so extraordinarily lifelike, it must surely spring from the massive plinth on which it is mounted.

Few remember the unicorn. Fewer still see it — down here, so far below — and those lost souls that do, no longer bear witness. They have forgotten the unicorn’s splendor, have become immune to its beauty and magic. Clothed in their own tattered shadows, they shuffle past with the brims of their hats pulled down to shield against the unicorn’s light.

Work quickly. Wedge the pry bar beneath the broken stone floor and the plinth’s heavy base. Curl, bodily, over and grip the metal lever. Tight-fisted, teeth grit, sweating — lean fully against the bar’s length. Hear the gritty scrape and separation of stone and metal. Feel the dull-eyed gazes of shuffling passersby slew ‘round.

The statue shifts.

Heave again.

And again.

In full-bodied, sweat-inducing, gut-wrenching, necessary effortheave.

Break the statue free.

Restore the magic.

Release the unicorn.

 

— C.Birde, 6/18

 

Gray Cell — A Dream

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“Gray Cell” — C.Birde, 5/18

 

 

Featureless room. Monochrome gray. A 10-foot square cell. No door. Lacking windows. A chamber deprived, depriving. Soundless. Scentless. Without texture. But for the rectangular hole — a 3-foot wide horizontal slot, 9 inches high, 8 feet up. Light drifts and gently slips past the rectangle’s hard edges. Shadows pass. Hint of movement beyond. The rift darkens, fills. Squares of fabric choke the slot, tumble — edge over edge — into the cell. One after another.  Rough weave of fabric; rust orange. Another and another. The pace of their entry increases. Rapidly, the chamber fills, becomes a landscape of heavy, rumpled rust. Ankle deep. Calf deep. Knee deep. Still, the slot coughs up more. Waist deep. Ribs deep. Shoulders burdened. Lungs restricted. The once-gray cell, transformed. Sunset hues consume, bury.

 

— C.Birde, 5/18