Leveler Poetry Journal
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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. 


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


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


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


red, blue and yellow wings

piercing through the batting.

Bluejays, cardinals,


were asleep, dreaming,

they were flying.

Millie Falcaro