Richard Pierce

Richard Pierce – author, poet, painter


Day 119


We were oblivious
To each other, the blackbird
And I. It hid behind the empty
Plant pot, I strolled through
The garden, unseeing, mind
On the greyness, the
Luck we had with the Easter
Weather weeks ago, the unusual
Miracle of warmth when the world
Slowed a little for us. Back
To normal now, again
Winter claws out and clouds
Heavy with disaster and dark.
The bird, fluffy with
Youth and inexperience, as
Slow as tight fingers on
The keyboard in silence,
Idea before music, words
Before sound, the bird yellow
With beak, and eyes
Closed, comfortable with
The seeds and worms from the hard
Ground, and inadvertent
Hiding, didn’t see
Me until my nth
Circuit of the small patch
Of land at the top of
This hill, trees around,
More trees a short bird’s
Flight away, eyes open
Suddenly, instinct alive,
Alive, flutter, wing, quiet
Escape up onto the fence,
Scrape beak clean, stare
Again at the strange biped
Staring and wishing for two
Skinny feet on outstretched
Arm. In the distance,
A rumble as the plane lifts
Into metallic flight with
Lucky people on
Their way to heat and
Holidays. A last look,
And the bird is gone.




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