Idiolexicon: 6/4/2007


Glenn Bach


from Atlas Peripatetic

140

Like it or not, these flocks
of permanent residents of shore,
some mornings all hope. They stay,
these crows and seagulls from
the rain and the urban origins of escape,
of a boat, sorry until the day
they fly. No story is true, the parrots,
thousands of miles of thread,
face new orders, find
what home. We creatures, so far
from places we carry far.

Conures green with red
spots, small patches of red,
yellow spots, they have never
flown. Roost and breed
in one of the beach cities,
spotted in valleys and counties,
in cities flying low over freeways,
coastal bluffs, let go or escaped
and made home thrive, grown
to the climate of tropical plants,
eucalyptus and coral, in a tree
the calls of green birds flying,
the birds, the parrots.

The day of the parrots and the radius
of their roosting, groups of foraged
miles, most afternoons they returned,
four flowering trees all separated,
the trees a cyclone. The parrots flew
over grounds and sometimes landed
in trees overlooking yards. In the trees,
pink flowers, discarded petals
on the sidewalk, the petals often falling
beneath the tree, their meal,
their bills, their perch,
chattering, fighting,
preening (caring).

When the parrots return (mutual),
one sound like a drill in response, in unison,
in and out of the sun, watch and listen
silent until the next sun wakes.

Dawn wait, watch
roof for the morning wake,
sunrise up, stillness,
mere minutes of sight,
chatter in a swaying, soon
parrots roost, circle the early sky.



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