rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Bird Thou Ever Wert

It was another nearly perfect spring day, though it was a bit too warm in the car when I went shopping. I fear that I've spent almost every penny of May's grocery budget already. I really need to learn to plan a bit more carefully. But the bargains this week were irresistible. The good news is that I have almost enough cat food and certainly enough kitty litter to last through June. If it doesn't get so hot that I have to turn on the air conditioner I might be able to make up the shortfall then. For now I'll have to dip into the emergency money. I hope there aren't any more irresistible bargains for the rest of the month.

That hooting bird who has been hanging around for over a year now has been calling all day today. I'm beginning to suspect that it is some sort of owl, even though I only hear it in the daytime, but I have no idea what species it would be. It sounds owl-like enough, but I've never been able to get a look at it, even when it has been nearby. It seems to like to remain concealed, although maybe it's just that my eyes have gotten so bad that I can't pick it out. It sounds like it keeps to the branches near the tops of the pine trees. The call is a bit mournful, especially since I've heard others of its kind only a couple of times. But at least it isn't as disturbing as the croak of the magpie. I'm really glad I don't have a magpie sounding off as often as this hooter does.

Sunday Verse

Counting the Magpie

by Lorna Crozier

“Souls of poets dead and gone.”
- Keats

explosion into air, breath spinning into matter,
                                    becoming bird, long-tailed
exactness of black and white.

Its feet are tar-walkers, waders into lightlessness
                         precisely deep. How heavy the soul is
in that feathered body! How it loves its weight,

                 its magus head conjuring beauty
in spilled blood and carcass, in blowfly scab.
     Death-feeder  song-spoiler  the stretched-like-sinew

sound you can’t make into music – count the magpie,
the soul’s raw cry that needs no other’s singing:
                                            one, and one, and one.


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