Truth be told, I’m not a big bird fan. Birds are weird and creepy, and they have mites. Some of them have flat eyes, and legs made of snakeskin. They’re prehistoric. Don’t even get me started on their beaks, feet and talons. If I think about it enough, and especially if I begin to obsess on their dirty bird poop, I get really uncomfortable. I’ve talked about it before- a lot. If you want to revisit my paranoia, go to this post and scroll down:
But when they travel all together, in those surreal bird cloud, I remember what the word ‘awesome’ really means, and I’m mesmerized.
Look at that! So cool! They look like whales floating in the deep blue sky, or jelly fish, or the oh’s of Virgina Slim smoke chm chm used to blow when she painted my nails in high school.
I’ve tried to take a thousand pictures of them, but they’re tricky little bastards, so fast and ephemeral. I did write this poem:
Maybe they do it
For the fun of fractaling
Kaleidoscoping a peacock plume sky
Herding Marie Antoinette’s pink lamb clouds home
Surfing a Hokusai wave
They like to see themselves cartwheeling the air
Turning on a talon
Willowed ballerinas bent
In the moon’s curve
Chins pointed north
Beaks to the stars
Wing tips fluttering
A military formation
Parade of regiments
The march of mirror images
Showcasing snapstep precision
That’s some fancy featherwork
Flap flap turn
Flap flap glide
Tic toc keys
Unlocking invisible planes
Into the eyelash slit of dimension
Maybe they do it to baffle me
Englassed, ensteeled, enclosed
Inhaling the insidious exhaust
Of collective commuter angst
Caw, caw, caw!
I miss the light
Hypnotized by a dazzling spiral
Gray Hitchcockian blur that splits
Angry cloud into fat raindrops
Death defying Wallendas on electric lines
They laugh, pointing with their feathers
They mock me,
Cackling, clucking their disapproval
Pitying my heavy legs
In my sterile climate controlled bubble
I stare transfixed,
They rise in unison, enticed by a breeze
Black fluttering arrow, pointing north
Car horns Aaoogaa
Vibrato with scorn
Those who missed the show
Red faces furied
Force my attention back to the road
A dozen AK47 eyes
Shooting me the bird
This post is dedicated to my beautiful, graceful cousin, Robin. Soar, cousin!
None have swooped down to peck at my head in a while, so coming around on birds.
Also – murmuration.
But chickens are plumerific!