Murder, Mayhem and the Like

Like a storm, the cloud arises

cast against the fading sky;

voices cackling in the distance

others scream back in reply…

The setting sun calls to the darkness

the answer swift on blackened wing—

while some may write of birds returning.

or rites of nature in the spring—

other folks seek out the dark tales

that speak both strength and suffering…

Stories passed down through the ages,

survivors’ tales of battles fought;

tales of anger and of sorrow

behind the guise that time has wrought.

Inside this gathering of the crows

we'd seek the knowledge they’d bestow,

shared with us on this nocturne

they cite for us this lesson learned:

 To find your way back to the light

   first you must confront the night

© Ginny Brannan

NaPoWriMo 2020 Day 5

On the NaPoWriMo site, their pre-NaPoWriMo prompt was to write something about birds. I have been pecking away at this one for a few days, pun intended, but it has been ruminating inside for  over a month since seeing large flocks of crows in the trees at dusk around the Medical Center where husband was undergoing surgery. I've since learned that these migrating flocks return to Massachusetts yearly, usually in late February - early March, mostly on the eastern side of the state near Lawrence but apparently we are also seeing them now in the Pioneer Valley. The sheer number of them was amazing, and my darker, Edgar Allan Poe side, has always been fascinated by these birds.

What the Birds Know

As nighttime shrinks and days stretch long

they come back to the woods and fields:

the mockingbird, the brazen jay,

the yellow finch, and whippoorwill—

unperceived, from far away.

Not steered by fear or politics

they search the woods and meadows, where

they gather bits of last year’s straw,

tiny twigs, discarded string,

to build new nests of grass and sticks.

Disagreements are but few and rare:

for only when they’re trespassed on,

when other birds invade their space,

their rights impinged—do they give chase.

How odd these days to coexist…

it seems to brush against the grain

of how we humans choose to dwell;

our instincts turn to other things—

it's rare to pause and contemplate

  and rarer still when calm remains.

A warm wind rises from the south,

the dappled sun shines through the tree,

a joyous trill burst through the air

from tiny bird on bayberry.

She sings without a cause or care

it echoes through the windowpane,

reverberates in amplitude—

and I, in turn, stop everything

to listen to her song of Spring.

© Ginny Brannan 2018

For the Birds/Bird Chatter

Image: Parke Harrison

For the Birds

Mr. Starling was his name,

Ornithology his game:

studying the birds both far and wide.

On researching the clues

he might take off his shoes

to get a better view of what’s inside.

Bird Chatter

We come into this world as naked as a jaybird.

Our parents give us wings, teach us to fly;

until we can finally leave the nest.

We tend to migrate toward similar people--

because birds of a feather flock together.

Knowing that the early bird gets the worm

we work hard to earn a feather in our cap.

When courting, we try not to ruffle any feathers,

hoping to find a wise owl rather than a silly goose.

We come home to roost, and feather our nest,.

Try not count our chicks before they’ve hatched,

then raise our brood until they can wing it alone

Once again empty nesters, we get our ducks in a row.

By now we should be sitting in the catbird’s seat,

maybe flying south each winter as snowbirds.

No longer a spring chicken nor cock of the walk,

just a couple of old crows that are happy as larks

we await our final swan song, 

to soar like an eagle into the sunset.

© Ginny Brannan April 1, 2011

Written for The Mag #111 Image provided by Tess Kincaid. She provides image, we provide story!!
AND
Sharing at d'Verse Poets Pub Open Link Night Week #38 4/03/12