Frequent scatterings of little birds,
snow buntings or horned larks, and
hawks at sporadic intervals on posts,

also northern harriers, or hen harriers
you might say, over the snowy fields.
Some people believe seeing a harrier

perched on a house is a sign that
three people will die; on a happier note,
some Native American tribes believe

seeing a hawk on your wedding day
is a sign of a long, happy marriage.
I cannot say, Birdie, why they make me

think of you, something about your
face or is it just the way love drifts
on winter winds with white wings

like it is made out of loneliness,
feathered with the self-same snow
it flies above, and I cannot tell

from day to day if I am the car
speeding down the icy road
or the field mouse just beyond

the grasp of your talons, but I hope
for the latter, that I can feed you
with my four limbs and pounding heart.


About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
This entry was posted in Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

2 Responses to Birdie

  1. gila_mon says:

    “like it is made out of loneliness” — loneliness so palpable it can be formed, and the last two stanzas are wonderful.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s