I stand
a moment
in frigid air
and hear a cheery bird chirp near
and think
Why does he play his song?
Does he not see the frosty fronds, the wintry trees, the sleeping ground?
I perch
a moment
midst warming breeze
and see a saddened person sigh
and think
Why would she moan and cry?
Does she not feel the stretching stalks, the budding leaves, the waking sounds?
And both
the bird and human
shrug
and go back home
to wonder why
the other must be bound.
Photo by Peter Lewis on Unsplash
Reblogged this on anita dawes and jaye marie.
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I wonder if they do think of us? They watch us intently sometimes, so I would like to think they do…
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I’d like to think so, too.
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BIRDS DON’T WONDER!!!
They muse…
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Ha! They poop.
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And, how!
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Beautiful poem! The human and both being bound tied this poem with a neat little bow at the end.
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Thanks! 🐦
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Lovely poem. I have a love/hate relationship with winter. It’s so pretty. But it’s so darn COLD.:-)
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🙂 I always love winter when it first comes but am done with it by February.
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Wow! Chelsea Ann Owens this is a sublime poem. Be yourself. Don’t let outside influences effect your well being. Absolutely loved it.
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Aw, thanks Len!
Where are your poems? 🙂 Don’t get too scared to write again; believe me, they get better with writing lots and lots of them.
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Love this, Chelsea! So well done!
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Thank you, Bill! 🙂
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My pleasure!
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I wonder sometimes what life would be like if we really could walk another’s path. Very well done, Chelsea.
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Thank you, J. I think flying the bird’s path would be a neat experience. 🙂
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Beautiful and wistful, Chelsea. The dual perspectives make a lovely pair.
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Thanks, D. I heard a bird outside yesterday, and he demanded I not leave him out of the poem.
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So nice to start really hearing the chirping birds when winter wanes.. 😉
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Yes, it is! 🐦
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I like your omniscient perspective. Or is it mixed perspective? I forget what the different types of narrators there are. Anyway, I enjoyed it.
I know what the small birds think because I’ve spoken to them:
I’ve always wanted to speak
to the smaller birds, so
I’ve done a lot of weird whistling
Sometimes a little birdie cocks her head
and tries to see if I’m a threat or a bird benevolent,
but I’m neither a mate nor predator, just
a conversationalist
So I whistle something which means
“give tomatoes to Owls, like Caesar.”
And she says, “Huh, what? And
for a Human you don’t look so bad
even though you have no feathers.
Why is it that you can’t fly?
It’s so easy.”
And I said, “Why is it that
you can’t speak and write novels.”
“Well, then,” it said, “have you written one lately?”
And I said, “Um, no…”
And it said in a way that I think it meant kindly that
I was a birdbrain.
Avian Translation
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😀 I’ll have to try talking to one now.
Thank you.
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