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. 

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