Poem for Hour Twenty-Four (24/24)

The day is done,

And we pass each other, like

So many birds trading schedules in the dark.

Hope plays upon our crests and roosts in our chests,

As we continue our lives in concentric circles from each other.

Owls nestle now their heads and red-winged blackbirds stir,

Dancing past hollow trees to congregate to meet another day.


As long as there is song in the air,

The still of calm will have foothold over us.

As long as bird breath comes out loud and strong into brightening air,

It means humanity gets one more day to try again,

And do it better.

Poem for Hour Twenty-Three (23/24)

Birds are SO PICKY!!!!

How could they be so fickle in creating their nests?

I’ve seen them hem and haw and throw out individual hairs,

Seemingly saying

“Well, obviously that doesn’t go there!”

I just don’t get it,

Not one little bit,

But do me a favor, and please grab this chair,

I don’t like it right here,

and this pillow’s overstuffed,

and the lights are too bright,

and could you help me move the printer,

because that location is not right.

I need the bed closer to the wall,

I think that would look best…

Oh, my…

Maybe I get being picky about nests.

Poem for Hour Twenty-Two (22/24)

Heron standing

steward overseeing

beckons me near with ancient eyes

great and blue

like his name supplies

the recognizable shapes of someone long laboring over thought


I came to him with joy and the weight of questions from years past

the hope of every birder to speak with this beast

prehistoric and wise

but i did not get to ask

it was his turn to speak

“Do you know why the land chokes?

Why smokestacks billow and coral reefs die?”

Taken aback, my gaze shattered like falling glass

down his immovable spine

He stabbed into the water and came up with


And set it down at my feet

Not blaming me but

Filled with decades of sorrow


I felt obliterated

for I love the ground which supports him and the

sky which holds him aloft,

but he asked of me still

impossibly hard things

he mourned

“Why are the seas overfished?

Why is enough never enough?

Do you know why the ceaseless wheels of progress

bowl over the unfortunate?”


I stood mouth agape

Head shaking like I could erase the truth

I asked through tears

“What can be done?” but his long beak like deep nights stayed persistent in its slumber

and I had no choice but to ask

“Why does this happen?” I pleaded

and the heron turned to me

amber orbs unchanging

“Humans think they’re better.”

Poem for Hour Twenty-One (21/24)

Covered platform,

Open platform,

Suet mixture holder,

Scrap basket,

Seed hopper,

Bowl feeder.

There’s grain and there’s seeds,

But no buffet of bugs,

So running water attracts,

What usually just won’t come.

Sunflower seed,

White millet feed,

Peanuts, cracked corn, and scraps.

A feast of old crusts, dough and donuts,

Stale, starchy, or fatty morsels,

May be like bread and butter,

But don’t forget to put out fruit,

To satisfy all the bird mothers.

Poem for Hour Twenty (20/24)

Common Raven | Corvus corax |  L 24″ (61 cm)

Large, with long, heavy bills, appearing on a bracelet I lost that very same road trip, but I didn’t stop thinking about ravens for a single day after I first time I saw them. Shaggy throats, I noted, but didn’t know what it meant, as I kept squinting at every black bird with a pulse to see if I could identify the bird to which I was newly and wholly devoted.

Voice: I learned to hear, that trip, what a raven really was. It wasn’t just the croaks and caws, it’s clacking and clicking and contemplative calls. I bought a DVD all about ravens and that narrator, too, had a voice I could listen to for hours.

Range: Found in a variety of habitats– hey, me and you both, great gothic bird. Can be seen from mountains, to coasts, to deserts. On occasion, a mated pair will nest and pass on their stunning genetics in the middle of pandemic and give you a reason to get outside every day, just to see if their little one has made the great leap from the government building’s window ledge.

Poem for Hour Nineteen (19/24)

My mother is almost certainly a corvid.

If you look at the signs, I am sure it’s in her,

Right down to the genus and species.

See, she’s:

Smart as a tack,

She can solve complex problems without ever skipping a beat,

She’s got a very long memory,

And it goes back,

As far as any eye can see.

She’s cunning,

A survivor through and through,

She wears all black,

And has talent for planning creatively.

She loves to play,

And she thrives in the rain.

Keeps her beloved, tight family,

Close to her home-base tree.

Poem for Hour Eighteen (18/24)

Savannah sparrow,

you amidst your sea of color,

Tell me,

Did you know,

That shock of yellow

Upon your brow,

Would look so perfect,

Against the Purple,

of the flowers?

Because I wouldn’t

be at all surprised,

To find,

That you lined up the shot,

On Purpose!

Poem for Hour Seventeen (17/24)

Why on Earth

is the phoenix

the symbol for rebirth

and reinvention,

when we have condors

here already,

which nearly disappeared

from California skies

but now produce

their very own young

in the wild

once more?


Poem for Hour Fifteen (15/24)

Argus Pheasant said to Peacock, “I can dance better than you,”

Peacock said back, with a tone of attack, “Well when it comes to pizazz,

I think that’s what you lack!”


Pheasant got mad and Peacock did too,

So the both of them did,

What they both usually do!


Peacock fanned out his tail in a great, wide array,

The sun making each feather shine,

Pheasant looked miffed at the gaudy display,

And started threatening Peacock right back!


Pheasant bowed very low,

Reared his tail up real slow,

And flashed his wings in a beautiful ring,

Creating a taupe-colored halo,

The two a clash of feathers,

and flapping of wings.


A hen watched from afar,

Lost for what to say,

Beak held ajar,

Took her best friends to have fun,

‘Cause who wants to deal with that, anyway?

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