• Poetry

    Mining the Bright Birds

    “ I strain towards the future, eyes focused on the far away past empty, quiet gray, like looking for a hummingbird in the snow. I squint at fine twig lines as they slice across white over green in front of the dormant sienna. I spy her there, a gemstone stately in her royal stance among the branches. It is no effort, truly, to find my way through buried days, if I but gentle my┬ábusy self, settle and sit, sip and settle, determine to welcome the daytime darkness while mining the bright birds.