Tuesday 132: Freedom
Poetry month, No. 6
Freedom
It can feel so serious, this thing:
The gutted services, imperiled progress,
overwhelmed therapists,
all while you were slipping
your bloody arms into its sleeves.
Your fate likely decided to its tune,
whose notes you’ve long lost sight of.
Look,
the land does not belong to its owners.
It’s like the blind inextricable sea.
It’s the same picture
painted over and over.
It’s a long walk
under a frostripe moon;
someone somewhere sleeping.
It took a couple of weeks, but the birds have finally returned, en masse, to the birdfeeder on my patio. I neglected to fill it for awhile, and they moved on to other resources, so had to rediscover it. I felt like I let them down, so it’s been heartening to see the familiar retinue of sparrows, mourning doves, and a pair of cardinals return.
One particular behavior I like to watch: There’s a covered area on the patio, a shitty sort of lean-to cobbled together with leftover fencing. When it’s raining, the birds will sit in its rafters, fly to the feeder to grab some seed, then fly back to the rafters to eat in the shelter.
I enjoy just sitting and watching them do their thing. It’s very nice to coexist.