all the words I had lost or abandoned returned to me, Kerfe
in the beginning I wasn’t a bird. I was a circumspect rendition of what feathers might become.
in the beginning I was black. well, everything was black, no hint of color.
except for my Creator’s eyes.
these eyes were given me.
in the beginning I walked the Earth. then Creator said, oh, I meant for you to be kin with sky. so Creator lifted me above the ground.
then I was given wings.
from such heights I can see far away, or close, very close, like inside. I see
my blood is blue. my blood is green. ochre is my blood,
the name I respond to when you call to me.
I was an egg, and then
I was the lips of the Creator when she looked at me. I smiled.
I became the colors of blood.
I looked, saw companion stars and moons, and you. I looked and what I most wanted to be in all of this creation was – free. unbound. no cage. no leash.
no treat tempting me to roost on a fingertip.
then I am the fingertip.
I might be a djinn. no, I’m a bird. but really, how’d you know?
I don’t live in a bottle, but I do sleep in a tree. no ropes, no hoist.
just the sharp embrace of my prayers.
and every day I sing the colors you might become. a room with more wings.
first there was air, then there was us.
even to the shade beneath each leaf. what it is that you expect,
but afterwards, obvious.
one story, one nest. a binary heart.
close circled. close. manifest.
feather threads itself into wind.
wind becomes a wing.
feathers, one sharp stone, obsidian. a ribbon to cut.
a pebble shaped like a wave. faith (maybe a fish).
happenstance. genuine toes, one pair.
image: gilt-edged tanager, draw a bird day (ink pen with watercolor), Kerfe
used with appreciation (and kind permission)