top of page

Feeding the Birds

Curls in the wind

bareheaded, scarf flapping free

daughter of poetry she laughs

throwing candy striped verbs

to wind-aged gray doves
and a black crow or two

pecking on stick legs and rusty beaks

black-bead eyes following her flying crumbs


Um they say, and clap and coo

as she searches in her satchel

for yet another packet of tasty morsels

grubs from her garden

sweet petals from her parks and paths


To any outsider they are what they are

bundled up old men and ladies

heavy and arthritic, creaking in armchairs

full of creased faces and prim hair pins

sipping cups of tea and nibbling marie biscuits

but she sees through them to their bird hearts

sings to them of pink-tinged dawns

leads them into a cloud of migration

filling the sky with V-formations until

the whole world is full of wings and screeching


Later they will rise, thank her,

take taxicabs home

climb aching steps to warmed rooms

and soft beds

to dream feathered dreams

of flying under and into the clouds

To Go Back To
Hit your browser's

© Johnmichael Simon



bottom of page