the bird around my neck
would not keep from breaking
the lines were too fine
sitting beside my thicket of indiscretion
Of all the things I have learned, much has been from watching.
One fell away from the pretty pattern. Met with window, meets with gravel.
There is most likely a mathematical equation for the sound of impact.
The only visible wound comes from mouth. A small gray stone catches the blood. On my knees, finding how much a stone can carry. Such softness of gray feather. I am frightened to touch this death. The intimacy of loss is unavoidable. All the ways I have left pretty patterns.
It has been said that the Bohemian Waxwing has no true song. A bird with no territory feeding on wild winter fruit. The swooping of impermanence and sour apple.
I go towards the edge, to the meeting place of ecologies. Place this bird body in the heart of a rose thicket. The belly of a weasel might be more appropriate. Who am I, to know the rituals of birds?
When I return, the moon rise is early. Held full in February blue. The birds are silent in the tree, watching. Pause in the pattern. Stone in hand, I am listening.
Brighde Moffat is a poet of geography. She is currently working towards an MA in Transformative Language Arts and Embodiment Studies from Goddard College. You can usually find her in the space between a feeling and a thought.