birdsoup

I found the following on a blog.  Written by Jane Shlensky, it was accompanied by a discussion about whether it was (1) a poem, (2) a prose poem or (3) poetic prose.   Whatever your choice I enjoyed reading it.

 “To the Stunned Titmouse in My Hand”

By Jane Shlensky

I hear the pop and swoosh of your wings against the sunroom door, what you mistook for a through passage becoming a slap to your senses, a snap along your ruffled neck and, for a moment, a flash of pain and darkness, your beak hanging open, your eyes unfocused, with a listening quality.  What do you hear, small flitting friend?  When you bumped into the glass, did you see stars and a circle of small birds tweeting around your head, like some Wile E. Coyote cartoon?  Or do seed-bearing tiny people dance around yours, singing cheeree, cheeroo, sweet seeds for you?  In my hand, I mark your quickened breath and fluttering heart along my lifeline, your feet stroke-curled and useless, you eyes unseeing.  I smooth your feathers and ladle drops of water into your opened mouth, then seat you on the banister away from predators like my cat until you can regain yourself and take to air, your head suddenly alert, you tail feathers perky, your wings spread sure and sharp, your tiny head now filled with a story for the nestlings of being handled by a giant featherless seed-bringer with water emerging from her fingers