How they are so still
waiting for the next bird call
moments in between
A lost stuffed animal: The smaller of the two faces still flushed with tears, they are pressed and belted into their cramped seats on the airplane. Suddenly they sit still like does. The woman relates their predicament to the flight attendant, who has just arrived.
Eating honey: As it bends the light reflected off the surface underneath, a slick golden tentacle of new honey curls off the larger bulk that has wrapped itself around a spoon.
A lost sock: Like a hieroglyphic, a tiny child’s sock soaked with rain sits atop a gate post, which serves as an impromptu lost and found. It will be frozen tomorrow morning, and then later will thaw in the sun of the afternoon. Its sole is dotted with white rubber traction spots which, when the sock is worn, would grip the world like squid suction cups.
Altitude: Listen to the racket of a hundred birds, the countless shapes and layers of fallen leaves. A balletic cry in the wilderness. The sharp beaks, wings working to gain precious altitude.
Down from power lines a broad shadow tumbles to the ground. A thousand feathers rustle as the wings of the flock are tucked. On the sidewalk, in the green grass, a hundred spotted throats peck. In the rout moths flash the red undersides of their wings from inside ivory beaks. Curling worms and millipedes clutch the air, moist soil crumbing off their shiny segments. From their places the sudden flock, a wave breaking, swarms up like fallen leaves exploding back onto a tree.