You’re as young as you feel…

You’re as young as you feel.
And my confidantes, buddies, pals, are the birds who frequently frequent…

The bold Crow who untied my companion’s shoes, yanking at the laces with its beak (leaving the companion open-mouth and me laughing)…

The Red-Winged Blackbird who fluttered over my head, operatic diva, I could almost touch this bird. Were you forging our halo, you angel? Was that you that followed me behind that Mall, seductress siren who ripped me apart with its song…?

You’re as young as you feel.”

…The mimic, the Mockingbird, nothing up my sleeve, always reminding me to be true to myself, keeps flying up to my rooftop then flies down to the grass out front. Will there be fledglings this year, again – ? – Once more, with feeling…

The silly Seagull pacing back and forth on that flat rock on a beach in Rockport, beak bent, “barking” nonstop as if he was talking to himself, makes me smile when I remember…

(And don’t forget – ! – the cats chums, intimates, soul mates, familiars — Anis, Cerridwen, Danu, Feng Po, Gwydion, Hino, Kapoa…)

You’re as young as you feel.

…The male Cardinal perched in my window, for a moment, PAUSE, reminding me of my first true love, the oh-so-male Cardinal falling from the sky and landing at my feet.

Red is the color of a heart broken.

You’re as young as you feel.



I wonder who it was…

Speaking of long-ago friends,
as a small child, sitting behind the sofa,
reading the book, THE RESCUERS

When Bernard, Miss Bianca and Niles met with the Norwegian Poet
(who they had saved from an ungodly hell)
to say Good-Bye,
the Poet leaned down and gently placed his finger
on top of Niles’ head. Well, after all, he WAS a Poet,
and Mice who stand on their hind legs
and speak intelligently did not “startle’ him.

Niles, a sailor, was also Norwegian.
The Poet suggested that they meet in Oslo
and “Make a proper night of it.”

Years later, I realized the voice I heard
had a British accent, a “brogue”,
not Norwegian.

I wonder who it was.

WHAT I SAW… (Crow calling)

The Crow sew a clumsy pirouette silhouette,
(Throw up the net!)
Arms akimbo, he turns — spiral primal —
What quarrel does he have with me?
… Long black feathers;
I’m just standing here, admiring,
The wise Crow knows, tries to rise,
Flies back to the top of the telephone pole
Home base — beak bayonet [stab jab]
Pulls up a small “coin” in his mouth.
We all need our treasures.


Today, at the edge of the lawn — a meter board, peter board, step on up — magnitude [!] a gray bird was perched,
Hey [!] how gay, may I play [?] your way, say, please stay.
I sway trying to discern the shape, a cape, his feathers…
But it’s the attitude of this dude, the mood, how rude, you’d think this bird construed a prelude to my next symphony — Rhythm of Life – but no this bird,
And I am filled with gratitude for its fortitude to change my solitude.
I remember you [!] I said to the Mockingbird.


I’m not old, I’m…
A tall Oak tree, the call, the scrawl, sky line, branches are bridges stretching celestial cycles, leaves falling to the earth, the sap inside slows [in winter] as the Oak sleeps, dreaming…

I’m not old, I’m…
preening, bathing, dusting, feathers ruffled, an adult bird molting,
shedding dead skin cells [feathers] to make way for new — thinking of flying, feeling the caress of the air, urge for going…

I’m not old, I’m…
A large orange tiger cat, curled up in the shadowy corner, eyes half-closed, purring, “seeing” herself running through the grass waiting for the bad weather to break, barely breathing…