A Petru Re-blog

Two (3?) birds on hand 

13

July 26, 2018 by petrujviljoen    for d’Verse

small bird
dying – a grim
beauty

It was my cat. I hate it when she catches birds. Lizards, mice a-plenty I don’t mind. It was still alive. Its head flopped and its legs kicked against my hand. Some fight left in it still. I took it out and put it on the steps of the outbuilding.

early morning sun
splattered steps
– a cold comfort

I go back. Sit with it. It might fall off in its struggle to get up. It closed its claw around my finger and we spent a bit of time. Me balancing my coffee and cigarette in the other hand. The bird is still, seems content even. I speak to it. Tell it I’m sorry. The cat certainly isn’t going to apologise.

The need for a second cuppa got the bird put in my woolen cap and left in the folds of the second jersey I took off. Having been offline yesterday I decide to check my email. A friend’s memorial service is being planned. Do I want to go.

Aaah! No!
an old pain kicks
against my ribcage

My study, the room with the best view, takes on a dense glimmer I can’t stand. I flee to the garden, leave the bird to its journey, check on it once in a while, while I rub the flowers off of the rosemary bush, water the spinach, the only thing still alive in the veggie patch.

dimmed
the bird’s eye
view its last sunbeam

busy at the easel I hear a tap-tapping against the kitchen window. Bemused, I go to look. Another bird of another feather wanted in. Tweeted a song and flew off.

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
This entry was posted in A mixed bag, Bird death and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Please share your own experiences here...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.