Wednesday, July 12, 2006

Double Crested Cormorant

He says that there is a proper ratio that shoud always be kept between humans and birds. That is the way it should be. So, when the seagulls come to close to the picnic table there is a line that has been crossed. The strangely too smooth white feathers, as disturbing as the swans. Not right. Colonial nesters. Needing company. I am this way and yet solitary. A sleek bird riding the wind away from all else. It never struck me that this stance was in any way wrong. Joining. Re-joining. Acceptance is a thing I walked away from because I seemed to be failing at it. Sitting here in my red chair and you call to reminding me that you love me. Despite the young Lithuanian that you danced with and despite the old Egyptian that I entertained. That you love me and remember my hands wrapping up Kate's kitchen. That you remember. I too remember loving you and reading from books meant to be packed while you made love to me. Your mass against me finally making me feel right sized. He says that feathers are dirty reminders of dirty things and yet I still have a handful. Eagles, others. Lining my shelves, my archaeology. I cannot seem to part with them.

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