《Strange world》Secret ice - Part 2
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The bustle sound, quite brief each time, stays hushed
subdued in background,
cannot break through my other teeming thoughts
'Til third so-soft repeat — old fashioned, somehow, strikes me then
the close-by sound I strangely hear . . .
A stately ballgown, maybe, rustling past in some old film?
a satin drape blown richly back by sudden breeze?
But now I'm thinking more of why —
why those sound cues, why now? why here? from what?
And then . . . flurry! soft brown wings blur, feather down my face
as tiny bird flits by me, touching as she passes
Bustling, rustling through kitchen air
Brushing up rough-soft against my startled cheek.
Shocked, rapt I watch wild creature soar and dart and look for light
She's fled her cunning entry place, glass kitchen door I'd left agape
Now seeks out sunshine, lit-up windows glowing elsewhere
finds sweet perch on green sill plants, soars sudden up
Bangs against the bright-lit pane, oh no! but not too hard
Seems quite unhurt, continues keenly to explore
Faster, further, and, of course, a great deal higher
than sorry clumsy biped dumbly watching her
Seeking some benign containment
Of her bold, risky, playful voyaging
now I rush off
to close all open doors
and rush right back again
to keep her, if I can, in view
She has an oddly clever, smiling face—
Just something in the angle of her cunning little beak
the pretty peachy breast, aglow below —
don't know what kind of bird she is
(or he, perhaps?)
but something touching in how this creature
this tiny, trapped, brown creature,
in this strange and peril-ridden world
does not seem afraid.
Not frantic, she's not frantic . . .
and I, so easily made frantic
these cruel, harsh, omicrony days
now catch the viral playfulness, talk to the bird
say come along now, birdie, let's go this way
walk her back toward kitchen, gesturing gently
with my right hand, talking low while I slide open glassy door
as she darts off, soars up
lands on a giant dried hydrangea bloom
kept high atop a kitchen cupboard there —
she poses prettily, peers down at me
And then . . . flies up, down, out
swift into still bright, still white sun
Brief freedom flutter showoff there
beyond the glassy door
And — gone.
***
Maybe a Bewick's wren? Apparently much renowned for their exploratory verve . . .
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