The twig recalls the feet of the bird
No matter how lightly grasped
It bends then quivers
As it is released
Remembering
Until it stills
Gone
The bird has flown
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The twig recalls the feet of the bird
No matter how lightly grasped
It bends then quivers
As it is released
Remembering
Until it stills
Gone
The bird has flown
Thanks for sharing your splendid, insightful poetic observation, dear Kate, leading me to wonder…
Indeed, a distinguishably different feel by the twig when sensing the company of a bird, contrasted with a summer breeze or autumn storm, where tension, shakes and bends transmit more broadly to the tree as a whole, sensing the space it occupies. And separate, still, a shower of rain altered by leaves catching droplets, tugging on the twig to shift in degrees. And best of all, one might suspect, the company of a bird, a transitory connection between two living entities, enabling the bird to hunt, mate, rest or relieve itself, safely away from predators, as the twig basks in the benefit of recall.
Phil, I’m glad it touched you and caused you to ponder the twig, the bird and the greater landscape around us all. There are so many things to consider, that something which looks dead or old does not mean necessarily that it has no feeling. Many trees roots grow deep under ground and even sawn off stumps have been found to both give and receive nourishment from other tress and fungi around them. It was difficult to condense everything I think about trees into a brief few lines for this poem but sometimes it is the brevity and leaving room for others to reflect on their own thoughts that matters more. I’m glad in this instance it was so, and thankyou for sharing your thoughts so eloquently.
This is lovely 🌞
Thanks Dave 🫶
Didn’t I just say “Australian Mary Oliver”? Just sayin’.
Oh those are big creative boots to fill Camilla but so sweet. 💕
So true, Kate. At every point in our lives, we are either the bird or the twig, sometimes both.
I love that thought Mitch