Feathered Days

I like to watch the sparrows in the garden. How they dart about, chatter amongst themselves, all fly off in the one, sudden moment, return later, one or two, then more, come back to pick for food, drink from the bird bath and the other smaller bowl I’ve put in the garden, one that I fill several times a day when, like now, it’s hot, sunny, the UV extreme.

They feather the day with a rich loom, softening the edges of the bright light. Every now and then, when I’m out in the garden, one will alight near me on a branch or shrub, and I’ll feel known, just in that sudden glance, a moment’s grace, some point of feathered origin.

Sparrow days, feathered ways.

About bydda88

I love poetry, writing, especially writing as healing, as touching the sacred, being touched. And place, places dreaming us, us them. Coasts, rivers, canyons; the ordinary things too, the small things, gestures that reach out.
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3 Responses to Feathered Days

  1. Grey Wolf says:

    I lovvvvvvvve Feathered Days.
    As I read I see you watching the sparrows, see the sparrows flit about as they do, enjoying the garden and so removed from the cares of the world to which we each at times confine ourselves like anchors in a sea of mirky water.
    There is an element of unquestioning trust here that we humans can also learn from.
    The richness of kinesthetic imagery brings your experience and observations to life on the page for the reader, thus providing an equally richly-rewarding experience for the readerly-writer.
    Unknown becomes known.
    There is a merging of worlds, in just the very way in which it was meant to be.
    A merging that opens the sealed heart.

  2. Grey Wolf says:

    (Or ‘murky’ – depending on…)

  3. Grey Wolf says:

    And I in my solitude, she said, watch the Double-Bar finches flit about in the overgrown natives, nesting, yes, a pheasant hoots and flutters across the back garden, rises like a wave about to crash to shore and lands awkwardly on a limb in the neem tree.
    Last week I saw the same pheasant, she said, in the cascara tree in the front garden.
    How do you know it was the same pheasant, asked her neighbour.
    I just – know.

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