January (or Winter Bird Dream)
Birds refuse to fly when it rains.
They prefer to remain on the ground
hopping in place resting on soft space.
She knew the way to attract them
was to line her window boxes
with sterile white cotton.
Surgical
cotton rolled like a small bale of hay.
The cotton glistened like peaks
of egg whites and new snow.
Here the birds could wait out the rain
yet be ready for flight—their impulse
ignited whenever the sun
returned.
The longer the rainy season, the less
they remembered how to fly.
When the woman died and it was time
to sort through her things,
We found a closet
filled
with brown wrapped boxes.
We could hear scratching along
the stiff box tops and wings pushing
along the sides of the swaying stacks.
The lid once lifted
revealed
red, blue and yellow wings
piercing through the batting.
Bluejays, cardinals,
finches
were asleep, dreaming,
they were flying.
| Millie Falcaro |
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