Friday, 9 March 2018

half life of a city bird

I lived high up in a city beech tree in Boston I inherited from my parents. Mom was a red and dad was a black bird. I displayed her colors in tufts, and they say my song pitched like his. I carried her tonality.

I wanted my life to improve but i was scared.The cars and trucks made my home shiver, the city made me feel like mine was the only tree. The pollution and city rats were a real danger, and worms were scarce.

I was scared of change and scared not to change, flipping and ducking my head in my chest. I left early one morning when car alarms would not stop chirping.

 I was sure I was a goner.

I flapped my wings and flew for several suns and moons on end. I knew not where to. Or for. The currents unusual to a little bird like me. I broke and fell, rose and tumbled, and slanted across the sky. Nights I huddled helpless and cold in a rain gutter, dreaming.

When I could go no farther, I found a hollow to a little birdhouse. Abandoned it was. What luck! and a fertile ground below. My nest I created of all the diverse fabrics under the sky, in the moonlight, fortified with lead paint chips while humans slept.

If I may say, I was already a miracle when I learned to transcribe letters dipping my beak in berries.

I wanted to recount and record my travels and knew no other recourse. My beak has not the strength of the woodpecker, and our songs are taken by the wind, so soon they evaporate.

I found words the humans wrote
on bits of paper I made
my nest
with.

I copied the many slender forms by my beak with the berry, and learned which forms coupled off with others and the when and how of it all. I already knew why.

I was already a miracle when I discovered your tongue.

Now half my life story
has been told and I
can rest
with.

It's a lot
for a little bird
like me.

For a little bird
like me
it's a lot.                                            

-- listen to KatYa read this piece @ http://writersontheair.com/ --