you can see the nests hanging
but not the bird
the infant mourning doves, the warrior quail
with its one feather headdress
among jasmine or bitter
and until pointed at
you’ll miss the green parrot
with its intelligent beak under its wing
you’ll hear the coo or the call
but not know from which bird
this discreet gray feather falls
or what is food
for something on winged talon
until the cardinal
cuts across
what you regard as the self
and slices it in half
just as you wake up
into this dream

This entry was posted in Poetry by Miriam Sagan. Bookmark the permalink.

About Miriam Sagan

I'm blogging about poetry, land art, haiku, women artists, road trips, and Baba Yaga at Miriam's Well (https://miriamswell.wordpress.com). The well is ALWAYS looking to publish poetry on our themes, sudden fiction, and guest bloggers and musers.

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