Member-only story
Ode to the Birds
Of friends and couriers, messenger,
warriors, to whom do I address the wildness
pent in lithe frames, kite skin, tailbone histories bottled
in slight limbs.
Of which seasons lapsed since then? In the hours
when dim-shrouded raven arose as shadow to
shadow the sacred realms of Yggdrasil,
endlessly circling, relentlessly clever.
Still lingers the hawk of the Nile,
where by miles the eagle “aquila” reviles
the foes of its state, by its place
the peacock of Juno patiently waits.
Of what song tickles the tip of the tongue,
the chickadee’s hum is the drums to
the sweet-laden sounds of the thrush, so
unlike the crack of the crow’s throaty hush.
Of fine glory, flaunted in feathers,
the vibrant flamingo fades the shade
of peaches at sundown, so similar to
the spoonbill, the galah, from the neck of the vulture.
Ever lovely is the curl of a name, “nightingale”,
“bluejay” and “sparrow” meet a melodious strain.
Swapping “kingfisher” and “cockatoo”…
