2 Poems

A Host of Sparrows, A Feather

A small flock of sparrows descends,

then gathers inward, on the top

of the telephone pole.  A shift

of wind sends them swirling like leaves

to the wire.  Then back to the pole.

I count 20 of them.  Pale, brown,

some wear little black bibs.  Below

them, I wait with my two grandsons

at the bus stop.   Lately, I have

been seeing more and more of them,

flocking together as if called

suddenly by the fall weather

to congregate.  Seems like time is

slipping away and I still don’t

know what to say.  The birds swirl up

into the air and disappear,

getting ready to migrate south.

A small feather floats to the earth,

hesitantly, like a leaf, not

certain about its landing, which

is by my feet.  I pick it up.

Neither boy wants it.  Their bus comes;

they climb up the steps and vanish.

I go home and press the feather

into a book.  It seems that we keep

practicing at leaving until

we finally, unexpectedly do.

A hug, a kiss, our parting gifts.

Sunday Finches

All morning they sat with sections

of the New York Times spread before

them in the sun. Fires and riots

and pirates in the Middle East.

Firings and protests and proper

propagandists right here in these

United States. Much more news than

is fit to print. That’s what he read

when the finches at the feeder

leapt from their perches and into

the air as if transformed into

one giant-sized speckled bird.

For one moment, the rapture held,

then dissolved into the many

little birds—Cardinals, mainly,

but some House Finches, too—who had

been patronizing the feeder

with microseconds of songs,

miniscule melodies that had

swirled about their heads in the air,

all in the full light of the sun,

which they wished had been longer.

Deborah H. Doolittle has lived in lots of different places (including the United Kingdom and Japan) but now calls North Carolina home. An AWP Intro Award winner and Pushcart Prize nominee, she is the author of Floribunda and three chapbooks, No Crazy Notions, That Echo, and Bogbound. When not writing or reading or editing BRILLIG: a micro lit mag, she is training for running road races, or practicing yoga, while sharing a house with her husband, six housecats, and a backyard full of birds.