The poem was written flawlessly in my head, but I just sat there and listened as my inner voice recited it.
I had no idea this version existed. Published in November 2020 by the University of Minnesota.
Much like me, the dove returns to the same spot over and again — a comfy, solitary seat in the branches. It appears content, like its only wish was granted.
Falcon on the spire-like tip of a cypress. Same spot I saw it in a few months ago. Only now, enveloped by the wafting incense of California trees, like a morning fog.
A freight train blows its hard horn (bright horn?) this morning.
I live in the suburbs and I can hear it — me and my cat.
There are tracks running through this town, and from time to time, rail crossings you might encounter unexpectedly, where you have to sit at the red light and wait for the endless line of rail cars.
The standard motor vehicles make just as much noise, anyway. I hear them like static on the receiving end of a phone. Not to mention their smoke.
Then there’s my retired neighbor with his generator that he uses for his pressure washer to clean his yard, where he also has a hot tub, along with a fluorescent blue bug zapper and a flatscreen, as well as a wife who does Zumba.
(Setting: near a large horizontal window at a gala)
Both stood and watched the window like a screen.
Birds flew by to Chopin’s salon-friendly Nocturnes.
The woman, holding champagne, smiled and beamed.
Her burgeoning beau was charmed and stood close.
They were having a Hollywood moment!
The birds, like fish in a bowl, circled in groups,
rose like ocean waves then dipped back down
and raced fiercely across the manicured landscape.
The man and woman looked into each other’s eyes,
smiled warmly and returned their gaze to the window.
A jealous suitor sat in the background, transfixed.
For him, Chopin’s piano music had stopped,
for he was attuned to the alarm of the birds.
He was witnessing something beyond ordinary.
I heard the choppy sound of a low-flying helicopter lingering nearby this morning at 7:30 for many minutes. Finally, I looked out my window, and all I could see was a sky that was admiral blue and a faded moon, full and hovering over the dome-shaped crown of a towering green tree. I peered through the leaves and branches, eagerly searching for a clue, for on the other side was a reality that differed from the one I was experiencing. This was apparent when a dove shot into the sky from behind the tree, gained altitude and vanished.
I did not know: The Bird Man is a motorcyclist!
Each day in his yard, pouring out fresh water for his feathered visitors, he hobbles to complete this daily task. And now, here he is, in usual T-shirt and sagging, beat-up denim, perched on the seat of a Harley — its engine choking and rumbling on a cool September morning.
It all makes sense, too — his hobble and the Harley and everything else. It all dovetails seamlessly.
Fly, Bird Man, fly,! For the migration season is upon us!
With covid upon us, my weight spikes like virus cases in the U.S., but sometimes I wake up early enough to take walks
With covid, I do switch to the opposite side of the street if I see you coming my way, mask or not
With covid, I sometimes will watch a bus go by as I walk, and I realize that the driver must be as brave as first responders
With covid, many folks risk their lives to make ends meet
Although with covid, our economy sucks
And nothing is really changing to adapt for future, similar challenges, such as another global pandemic
Meanwhile, with covid, even being a consumer can be as sketchy as being in an ER, such as if you make an unnecessary run to the bookstore or go to the salon to get your nails doneContinue reading