Common Redpolls

This year, they were anything but –

Until Saturday morning, when about 50 birds,
red-capped and frenetic in late winter plumage,
foraged the seed-midden beneath the feeder,
a winter’s chickadee and blue jay detritus
newly snow-free for the picking.  I watched

From the kitchen window, eating my oatmeal,
with a clear view of what it means to be inside
and out.  My days are cauled by a membrane
of vague spirits that wake at night in lucid dreams
of flight.  If I stepped out of this warm, windless place

To walk among the birds, they would surely scatter.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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