I know you’re not supposed to do this in a poem, but let me tell you what I happened to see today that had a huge effect on me. It was a photo, color, on a screen, shot by some man I don’t know, of a bird. A pelican. Maybe? An albatross? Not an eagle certainly. Some kind of sea bird, that much I am sure. Grey-white
the way they always are, barely yellow bill. Dirty, dirty. Wait. Did I tell you it was dead? I always forget that part. Dead and decomposed. Bill and bone and bird feather and tiny legs on the sand. But still a bird. Still the shape of a bird. Even a child standing over it, looking down, could tell it was a bird. A dead bird in the
shape of a bird. And cut open. Kind of around the belly. Or the body. Am I showing my ignorance of birds yet? Anyone, cut up so you can see the insides. Which were colorful. No, not like normal insides are colorful. Beautiful. Bright red, pale yellow, greens. Like a child’s room. Or a flower garden. But not. Plastic
pieces, ribbons and bows. Legos in the shape of spools. Bottle tops. Tomorrow’s drink. Yesterday’s snack pack. A piece of broken spoon. Pretty strings. Bright blue things. Let’s blame it on the birds, shall we? Surely they’re color blind, the silly things. Or maybe, just maybe, they’re something else. Mixing their palettes with the remains of the day. Swallowing truths. Suicide artists taking their last meals.
Image taken with iPhone at the table.
Words written at the Waywords at Waywards writers’ event. Inspired by love and inside out songs and this photo, which you’ve probably seen.
Time Taken 4 minute free-write.
Brain on fiction, novels, reading, bones and briskets.