A big wind is blowing the bird feeders from side to side
and thunder mutters to itself but the day
is as bright as Mensa.
Bare branches resembling veins and arteries
look skeletal as the bony, unfleshed medical figure
who dances only when someone jerks his puppet strings.
That big wind scours the sky as if the sky is a giant kitchen sink.
Trees bend, hanging their heads, sorrowful.
Such drama. Yet we are captivated to see
robins, thrushes—early birds not dissuaded
by the big blow, the rumble of thunder, the Danse
They fly with the flow, so light are they, skidding
among a thousand currents of air, tipping
this way or that, free from gravity
perhaps, or only delicately tied
to grand invisible waves of connection—
or affection, given their shared routes.
The pathways birds—and butterflies—establish
could carry us thousands of miles away and
afar were we able to follow them
and some have done so, lugging cameras
and high-priced computers and taking notes.
Or one may simply watch the birds feeding
at the feeders on one’s patio, cardinals
dignified and sometimes even officious,
the thrush with his rosy underside, juncos
chasing one another off the little
red schoolhouse that holds birdseed, or the hanging
cylinder that swings every which way in wind.
© Kelly Cherry