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The Thing with Feathers First

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Birds are odd

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We like them for their

Feathers

And their beaks

And beady eyes

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They peck away

For food,

Sometimes for shelter

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They signal presence

And need

And declaration

In their calls

From their perches

Or flight plans

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You see,

They know the seasons well

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If we could listen

We might know more

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They frustrate and inspire

Our need

To fly on our own

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We might cherish the colors

Pinned to bodies;

We can make the colors

And so leave

Them on the birds

So we might complement

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There is obsession

With the turkey

Once or twice a year

Over here

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We breed them

So they’re not a challenge

Except to cook

And then to carve,

Which others

Might do

For us

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We say it’s for the birds

Meaning silly

If not stupid

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We ignore their smarts,

Their networks

On branches and on wires

Not to mention through

The air

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In folklore,

Birds carry messages:

Bird-banders wonder

What they might be

Telling us

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Why were we given birds?

As reminders

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About freedom

In captivity,

The sad and mortal Earth

And those who only know the ground

So well

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They teach us harmony,

Disharmony—sometimes

The savagery

In talons,

Sometimes the kindness

In community

Even survival

Glowing air

With song

Like litanies

For practicing our allegories

As all the notes rise

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C L Couch

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“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

. . .

Emily Dickinson

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Photo by thom masat on Unsplash

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(I saw a picture of a flicker in the desert, pecking into a cactus;

my grandfather was a bird-bander for the government)

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