A Vision of a White Bird

I was listening

when I saw the wind
blowing against a white bird
who was fighting her way forward–
even as she tumbled back, in mid-air,
she struggled on.

I was listening

when she came to her nest, secure
in a high tree, and three chicks
were waiting for her there, crying
with open beaks for the nourishment
she brought up for them from her belly.

I was listening

when I heard the voice
like thunder say:

I hold the tree in place.

 

Jane Beal

1.1.12
The House on Flower Street

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