* * * Bird Rhythms I sat, twenty minutes, watching a flock of birds fly in patterns. What could we understand if there were not the birds’ songs to guide…
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The starlings come at 11:00. They leave. They return. They leave. Every departure is as complete as the one before. An escape from certain death. And every return—I don’t know…
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* * * I Do Not Have Wings I am deciding, today, how it will feel to be disowned. A black and blue butterfly has just landed in paint run-off…
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(excerpt from an in-progress biopunk speculative poetry manuscript titled Aeolia) * * * Earth has birds. In training they taught us: avoid metaphor, acronym, deflect questions, use only words that don’t…
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She headed for a clump of weeds when we appeared. Her wing hung down too low, sagging while she walked, big and black, considering. She gauged the distance to the…
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If you asked a male white-breasted nuthatch in the Middlesex county area about me, I’m confident he’d tell you that I run a hell of a bird feeder. Or, at…
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I went out for a walk on Easter morning, and all the houses in The Nice Neighborhood had their windows open wide with the scent of French Toast wafting out.…
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The halo told me I was on the edge, and this wasn’t a simple hangover from Benny’s Halloween party. The alarm clock, the ceiling light, even my bedroom door, all…
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* * * Those first days in Moscow, they were the enemy: their gray down gathering in corners like the frail remains of long dead cicadas. their droppings scarring the…
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Chicken Vigil Who will believe me when I say my hens forgo their daily dig for bugs and choose instead to sit like saffron Buddhas beside their sister-hen whose legs…
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I pick up the flat fledgling looking for the fall in purple fluid swell filling transparent cranium, dark blue blooming under the pink sheer of skin, so thin. There’s no…
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* * * * * * J.I. Kleinberg is an artist, poet, and freelance writer, she is a Best of the Net and Pushcart nominee. Her found poems have appeared in Diagram, Heavy Feather…
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* * * Come sit and empty your pockets, child, and let us count what we’ve got. We can sort it this way: for me, love counts. And cancer counts.…
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Stones I wanted to never feel hurt again so I attached a leash to a dog I borrowed for a controlled walk through a hot February in LA. We counted…
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