The flicker
I sit, with the picture window
at my back. Dare I turn?
A flicker flits from tree to post
to silence. How do I know?
I just do. I can either follow
or I can make my home
in bereavement.
What does it matter?
The flicker
photography by man of aran
" I can either follow
or I can make my home
in bereavement. "
Beautiful work
As a fellow birder, this poem sort of stopped me in my tracks. I find it particularly interesting because the mood seems to suggest a sort of anarchist meloncholy by the narrattor, yet as the reader, I leave it, despite the actual mood, with the potential for happiness. I say this because the poem goes a step further from the traditional - can the artist/narrator be separated from the art question. Instead, it transforms that question into an answer that says, 'regardless of what the artist/narrator may feel, that same artist/narrator is giving you, dear readr, the space to arrive at a different conclusion than its creator. Very cool written experience here.