THE PANIC OF BIRDS
By Olena Kalytiak Davis
The moon is sick
of pulling at the river, and the river
fed up with swallowing the rain,
So, in my lukewarm coffee, in the bathroom
mirror, there's a restlessness
as black as a raven.
Landing heavily on the quiet lines of this house.
Again, the sun takes cover
and the morning is dead
tired of itself, already, it's pelting and windy
as I lean into the pane
that proves this world is a cold smooth place.
Wind against window---let the words fight it out---
as I try to remember: What is it
that's so late in coming? What was it
I understood so well last night, so well it kissed me,
sweetly on the forehead?
Wind against window and my late flowering brain,
heavy, gone to seed. Pacing
from room to room and in each window
a different version of a framed woman
unable to rest, set against a sky
full of beating wings and abandoned
directions. Her five chambered heart
filling with the panic of birds, asking: What?
What if not this?
A perfect poem, this, to go with a hurricane. So far, we've only had some wind, dark clouds and no rain. But the Hummingbirds are here in droves. I've had to refill my 3 feeders every single day for a week. I guess they're escaping the storms down South. I'll feed them all.
The wind is awesome, just amazing. I wish I could bottle it. I've taken down all my windchimes and moved my plants in. Come on Isaac. Bring it on. I'm ready now.
"No one but Night, with tears on her dark face,
Watches beside me in this windy place." ~Edna St. Vincent Millay
The wind shows us how close to the edge we are. ~Joan Didion