Tag: birds

Plumage

1 February 2025 / Editor

Poetry by Sam Barbee

The red cardinal, whose head-feathers
have fallen out, sits on the wooden fence.

He notices our yard full of movement, shapes
big and small imparting various shades –

blue sky with white clouds, zinnias.
Dogwood wavers with breeze he does not see.

Motionless, one coarse and knotted branch
cradles the nest he feeds. The birdbath

bends a murky prism, a reflection of scruff
on his grey-red tuft. Unlike full-feathered

finches, and pileated cousins pecking a maple’s trunk,
he can only imagine a proper bonnet of feathers –

not molt or baldness from mites. Not scar
of low-branch wound. Perches content without

storybook color or crest. His grandeur resets
the order. A quest for tranquil, preening wings

on the wooden fence. Sanctified to guard
against squirrels or Cooper Hawk carnage,

he flaps to the nest of hatchlings,
content with reimagined beauty.

Sam Barbee’s newest collection is Apertures of Voluptuous Force (Redhawk Publishing, 2022). He has three previous poetry collections, including That Rain We Needed (Press 53, 2016), a nominee for the Roanoke-Chowan Award as one of North Carolina’s best poetry collections of 2016; he is a two-time Pushcart nominee.

birds flying over body of water during golden hour — Photo by Johannes Plenio on Pexels.com

Houston in August

6 November 2024 / Editor

Poetry by Stacie Eirich

There aren’t any birds here
the only wings in the skies
silver steel, we counted 30
in the space of an hour
over our heads, lights flashing
in early evening skies
drone of engines replacing
songs of sparrows.

On the streets, traffic flows
fast and heavy, whooshing
and swooping across lanes
in swift ascent. Dog-walkers abound
with the dawn, joggers rounding
corners, mothers pushing prams
scores of cars and buses lined up
for drop-off, a continuous cycle
of bicycles, scooters, pedestrians
crossing in pre-dawn light.

I turn down the radio and listen
for each next turn, navigating
a maze of one-ways, interchanges
and tollways. Siri leading me
to the next somewhere else
somewhere new, exciting as it is
unfamiliar and frightening.
It isn’t the size that frightens me,
or the humanity—but that cold silver
in the skies, feathers and song replaced
with aluminum alloys.

101 tons of titanium circling above
our homes, our heads, our children
in the blazing sun of a 106-degree
afternoon, humid and buzzing
with dragonflies, our ears adjusting
to the constant drone of engines
through the night, our hearts longing
for the melodies of
the Carolina Wren
the Eastern Bluebird
the American Robin
the Northern Cardinal.

Our memories full
of blue Louisiana skies
painted with wings
of feathers and light
melody and song drifting down
to meet us in greening grass
brassy winds playing a background
breeze of second-line jazz in our
small-town backyard.

Stacie Eirich is a mother, poet & singer who recently moved to Texas. In 2024, her poems have appeared in Kaleidoscope, The Bluebird Word, Synkroniciti, and Elizabeth Royal Patton Poetry Prize Anthology. In 2023, she lived in Memphis while caring for her child through cancer treatments at St. Jude. Find her at www.stacieeirich.com.

photo of birds on concrete wall near city buildings during daytime — Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Birds at Dawn

12 August 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Sarah Das Gupta

A blackbird sings at break of day,
the notes cascading, trickling,
over sunlit tiles.
On the old flint wall
a sparrow chirps, cheekily
to an awakening garden.
A pair of thieving magpies,
black patches over each eye,
chatter like pirates
from the dark yew,
planning a surprise attack
on the treasures of the bird table;
while ring doves coo softly
from an avenue of ancient limes.

Sarah Das Gupta is a retired English teacher from Cambridge, UK. She has had work published in many magazines/journals including Bar Bar, The Bluebird Word, Cosmic Daffodil, Green Ink, Waywords, Shallot, Pure Haiku, Rural Fiction, American Readers Review, Paddle, and others.

Magpie

7 June 2023 / Editor

Fiction by Andy Larter

First of all I hear their harsh clacking. There they are in the cherry tree, two of them, thank goodness, ying-yang, bold and brash. I hold a cup in one hand, towel in the other and, despite their reputation as nest robbers, I love their brilliant whiteness, their dark, glossy tails and wings.

They cackle me back to that time we heard a thud on the window, the one I am looking through now. We turned to see what made the sound and there on the window was the shape of a bird like an old photo negative–vague, ghostly, wings and all. Yvonne locked the cat away as I prowled into the yard. Under the window, stark against the earth lay the bird. I thought it had died but it quickened in my fingers.

Dad said they were evil birds. Yvonne said it’s not all black and white. “Look at that green and blue shimmering in its tail,” she said. He pointed out the cruel dark bill, the way they frighten smaller birds. Mum told us how they often taunted Patches, perching and cackling just out of the cat’s reach. Yvonne thought them clever creatures. She brought a shoebox, some cotton wool and a couple of writhing worms she’d collected from her bed of herbs, placed it on a shelf by the window in the shed.

“I’m going to take care of him,” she beamed. “Make him well again.”

Back indoors I saw the image of the bird remained on the glass and I gazed through it to the yard outside. I took a photo of the pattern, saw that moment through the bird’s eye, tried to focus on what it had seen.

The following morning, when Yvonne went to the shed, the bird had gone. Dad said he had found it on the floor of the shed pecking at crumbs and dust. “I thought it best to let it go,” he said, “and it flew to the aerial. Another one joined it and they went away.”

As I watch the antics of the magpies in the tree today and listen to their bold, aggressive chatter, I shrug and salute them. Then a vision of her magpie reappears in my mind’s eye and, beyond that, some blurred movement in the shed.

Andy Larter is a retired teacher, who, since retiring, has taken writing more seriously. He has had a few pieces published in local magazines and a couple online. He probably doesn’t submit enough but some friends encourage him to do more. He lives quietly in UK with his wife.

colorful male specie of eastern bluebird starting flight — Photo by Skyler Ewing on Pexels.com

The Bird’s View

1 June 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Tarah Friend Cantore

I perch in my favorite maple tree outside of her home
Grateful to reach my most northern destination from the South.

I peer in through the window.
She is where I left her late autumn.
Writing at her desk
still
I am thankful that hasn’t changed.

What has?
She is wearing glasses. I don’t recall her having them before.
Is her hair more gray or is it just my imagination?
More wrinkles too

Her shoulders are elevated.
Does she recognize the stress within her body?
Should I let her know?
I leave my branch and fly to another nearby
hoping to get her attention.

I do.
She turns to look at me
saying “Hey, Blue! Welcome back!”
She looks back at her journal,
rubs her neck and sensing the tension
instinctively rolls her shoulders
Her chest rises and falls
She’s not coughing anymore. Wonderful.
Three cleansing deep breaths
and another
She likes even numbers.

At the other end of the room
I see more bright paintings
She’s been busy.
One in progress on the easel
Teal fence, blue sky
the Outline of a lighthouse?
Has she traveled recently
or is this a memory from her favorite place
and summer vacations in Maine?

The sun reflects off of her wedding rings.
Thank whatever higher power for that.
She has worked hard on her marriage.
Sparkle

She looks up from the page
out at me again
she wills me to stay
and ask my friends to join
Sunshine and warmth

She looks down
resuming writing
What emotion is she spilling onto the page?
Fiction or nonfiction?
A poem?

Her attention is drawn to the computer screen
She writes a few more lines
concluding with pen down

She looks at her reflection
adjusting her position.
Is her head on straight?
Literally- her posture has been called into question
Figuratively too- her sanity is questionable recently
Is she participating in another virtual writing group?
Does she finally see herself as a writer?

She nods to the other humans,
to me,
to herself.

She believes.

Tarah Friend Cantore has been writing for three years, starting with a non-fiction memoir incorporating her artwork in tough & vulnerable. She wrote and recently published her debut work of fiction, Spiral Bound. Her poetry has been published in the Telling Our Stories Through Word and Image Anthology in 2021 and 2022.

Common Loon

25 May 2023 / Editor

Poetry by Debbie Theiss

Golden glow of aspen sandwiched between
spruce and pine cast shadows across the lake.
Summer wanes, dark comes early. Even loons
give up summer plumage of black-and-white
checked back, black head and neck iridescent.
Replaced with gray feathers, white breast— ready
for migration. The handsome waterbird
calls to its mate, lets out a haunting wail.

Like the formidable swimmer, I molt
throughout the seasons. Auburn, wavy hair
once thick, now gray streaked with white. Bright blue eyes
weary, plump lips drawn into narrow lines—
life’s winter. I let out a mournful cry
for my mate—but—there will be no answer.

Debbie Theiss is an award-winning poet and Pushcart Prize nominee. She finds inspiration for her poetry in the unfolding art of daily life and nature. Her chapbook Perfectly Imperfect was published in July 2021 by Kelsay Books. She has poems published in I-70 Review, River & South Review, and others.

Mud Season

30 March 2022 / Editor

Poetry by Emily Donaldson

A scrambled egg breakfast,
a pocket clementine, tea.

Heavy boots pulled over wool socks,
knowing each step will be unsteadied
by the hungry latch of mud season.

Resident red breasted robins dart in undergrowth.
Crows call to each other from the wood.
Steam rises from the tea, curls like frost smoke
above the last vestiges of snow.

A wrack line of melting ice gravid with topsoil, softening.

The mud-stirred rush, sharp and sweet.
The ovary of a former flower, pulled first from its branch,
and then from my pocket. Clementine peels dropped as eggshells,
as petals. Pulling spongy ribbons of pith from half-moons, as fine as root hairs,
jagged as lightening.

A striking vision of seasonal return, this jeweled orbit:
ruby-crowned kinglets, blue-headed vireos,
yellow-bellied sapsuckers reclaiming their home
amidst black capped chickadees and wheeling starlings.

Calling the promise of nests, of precious eggs cradled in
loose twigs, chaos ordered with care. Their nocturnal flights
under cover of darkness like glittering comets,
bringing new life to beloved ground.

Showing us to make home in the dead wood.

And I, having devoured the world in a morning,
wingless, nursing citrus sting on cracked lip,
whisper thanks.

Emily Donaldson writes as a way to connect with everything around her, and to explore the relationship between the natural and our inner worlds.