Photographs are courtesy of Christy Hengst.
Curator Suzanne Sbarge–without whom none of this would have been possible.
Christy’s birds on rust.
The birds on salt–some of this salt was actually brought back from Wendover, Utah by the artist. The rest is Morton Salt, which has a plant outside Wendover, so it comes from there as well.
***
By the way–the birds are for sale–just ask me for details.
Poem by Kerry Trautman
Cardinal
Quaking in the shock of another
early December, the tree bones
basket themselves skyward,
gathering meager sunlight
to ration over upcoming months.
I pity those exposed frames, brittle
as if a lighting cardinal could
crush them to twiggy shatters
then fly away, a bewildered
blood against the clouds.
And I am eager, warmed
and fleshy behind frosted glass,
for the starkness outside to
again beget the green-tassled
leafing of—ah!—April,
surprised each time, like how we
heave then cleave ourselves
parallel again, after sex, breathing
our heat, unbelieving, still, that
that is how we got our children,
fearing that the next cardinal
to overwinter, repeatedly
careening it’s nothing body against
our window’s reflected sky, will
dash not itself, but our glass to bits.
***
Birds by Anthony Abbate
The Bosque In Winter
I watch silent
as birds mark time
gobbling grain and spearing fish.
Side by side Shovelers, Pintails, and Buffleheads
go about the business of their day;
flapping wings, tipping tails,
gulping pond scum,
enough to grow fat in winter.
I learn to identify life coming and going.
The shape of a tail, the color of an eye,
tell me who you are.
Slivers of sunlight
green and purple
flash like charms upon still water.
In fading light
a frenzy of wings
black and white
swarm the pink and purple sky,
snowgeese and cranes
so bountiful
on ponds at twilight
I can leap secure
upon the backs of birds.
Your Garden
It is that time of day
when hummingbirds feed frantic
sucking nectar irresistible from red flowers
in a landscape that begs for rain.
I watch acrobatic flights capture sunlight,
flash rufus and shimmer ruby on miniature crafts
so perfect in design.
What would it be like to move like that?
My movement so slow plodding
cannot compare
to the thumping and pumping of a hummingbird heart.
Hovering and swooping
from penstemon to gilia,
beebalm to butterflyweed.
I watch until the chill of night
slows the beating of tiny hearts cold,
seducing little birds to nestle still
in cups of lichen and spider silk,
until the warmth of dawn
stirs their wings once more.
***
Theresa Ferraro has been studying creative writing at SFCC in Terry Wilson’s class.
A combination of two of my favorite things in the world– glass birds by Scandinavian artist Oiva Toikka.
What struck me was how gestural these are–they “feel” like birds about to move, the shapes evoke birdness. I bought a little one with brown spots–tangible if I run a finger over its surface.
Raptor
Oak leaves whisper–
a blanket of white noise
for my thoughts
then, a thick flutter of wings
a shadow throws its weight
across the page–
for a frightened moment
I shiver in the sunlight.
———————-
Furious Birds
Sometimes I wish I could wake without worrying
about famine, war, my upcoming visit to the doctor.
One April morning I opened my eyes to furious birds
- blue jay and woodpecker – attacking each other, a
turf war in the coast oak outside my window.
The jay had started a nest. The woodpecker, whose
own domicile was across the meadow in a dead spruce,
claimed all trees as his.
For once I didn’t feel responsible, padded barefoot
to the kitchen, humming.
————-
Arlene L. Mandell
Goldfinches
Flashes of yellow as bright as lemons,
Flitting, fluttering, like fall leaves defying gravity,
From ground to feeder, from branch to branch,
Yellow birds like saffron sprinkled in the stew of spring.
Mary Anne Wright
Thanks to photographer Ursula Moeller.
