Whales and Wailing — A Dream

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“Whales & Wailing” — C.Birde, 8/17

 

The building is a single story, squat and square with walls made entirely of windows. Situated on the beach, it stares blindly over the great, gray stretch of ocean. Lace-edged waves lap and curl against the sandy shore. All seems tranquil, quiet. Stand before the barrier windows, though, hands pressed to the glass; glance left – the serenity is broken. A killer whale is caught in the shallow water, breached. Taut, sleek ,black and white skin runs with seawater. A pectoral fin lists skyward. The large mouth, arrayed with rows of sharp teeth, hangs slack – a shadowed pink cavern.

Howl an animal cry. For the waste of life. For the selfishness. For callous business decisions and profit margins that disregard the larger picture. For the tangled and interconnected web in which we are all a part. For compassionless, human hubris.

Howl again, in anguish while all those surrounding continue, unpreturbed, with their individual tasks. Heads bent over papers and devices, they remain unaware, detached. Unconcerned for the great creature’s suffering and passing; unmoved by the strangled human wail that issues from amidst their own.

All but one. She approaches. A little girl, wide-eyed and concerned. How old – eight, nine, ten? She feels it, too. The grief. The suffering. But her hand is firm, her touch warm. Her very presence anchors, halves the pain.

Cling to her. Don’t let go. Fight it. Together.

 

— C.Birde, 8/17

 

 

Constriction — A Poem

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“Constriction” — C.Birde, 7/17

Clouds

blur the horizon,

smudge

the crooked line

defining

here and there,

then and now.

Slowly,

the crows return

to roost

in the evergreen’s

upswept boughs,

their wings glossy,

inked with words

unwritten.

The sky inhales,

constricts and

saturates.

The rains will pour;

the dreaming

recommence.

The words

will

f

o

l

l

o

w .

 

— C.Birde, 7/17

 

Green Tonic — A Poem

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“Fern Wood, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17

 

The crush and shout

of the larger world

persists

beyond these fringed,

green borders

where, time and again,

I return

to drink

the Wood Thrush’s tonic

of sung sunlight,

to feel

the fern’s frill-lipped

cool breath against

my calves,

to absorb the drum and patter

of rain upon

the woods’ sheltering

green canopy.

I come to cleanse myself –

of grief and pain and worry;

to drench myself

in green.

 

— C. Birde, 6/28/17

 

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“Wooded Path, Tourne” — C.Birde, 6/17