11/27/18
Rare Bird, they cry.
Look, Mother, it's the
Rare Bird. Why does she
wear such strange clothing?
the rare bird hears these
onerous musings from behind
the heavy iron stalls. she wilts,
just a little, not enough to notice.
they toss her grains from
paper bags. they love her,
she tells herself with a
ruffle of her crest.
they love her, they truly do,
and also--tomorrow will
be different.
Rare Bird, they cry
as the sun rises upon a
new day. Look, Mother, it's
the Rare Bird. Why is no other
with her in her enclosure?
the rare bird tucks her head
under a sorrowful wing,
lets her face sag for a little,
just a little, not enough to
notice. when the grain comes
dashing in, in cumbersome
demands, the rare bird looks up,
looks out, presenting herself to
be seen. she eats a little grain
so they won't question her,
and then looks past. she sees
other pens, other creatures with
their heads down, but she can't
speak to them. she traded her
voice to be here. she traded
her wills and worries, and
she was plucked from talon
to breast, refurbished and
painted the finest shades, the
most royal blue, but she will
not be such a rare bird when
the paint begins to flake.
NOTE: Thank you for staying this far with me. We're almost to the end of the month, folks.
--KingfisherBirdLady
YOU ARE READING
Hello, November
PoetryThis is a collection of my writings from November 2018. It's a continuation of "Poetry" and "Poetry and Writes", but will be much shorter. I'll try to write something each day of the month and post as I go--even if what I've written sucks. Who care...
