¡Míralo! Los blackbirds…

There are always blackbirds
black bear force fear forward
when the ravens crow
there are always blackbirds
and tomatoes on tables
learning to catch knives
the red cliffs howl at night
there is always rust and bleeding
honey tea with age there is always laughter
and corn in fields like cotton
dance dia de los muertos and there are always seashells
fear forward and there are always sunsets in the west
straight from the black steps
there is always tearing – like rare…
and tearing.. that sears… and there is always…
rice and clouds
in bowls


When I was 16, I rode a gondola on a string
Up Mount Pilatus in Switzerland, in June.

At the top, I stood so still to take in the view

And a blackbird….
Came to sit with me

He cawed his bellowed crow and looked deep into my soul

He said…
You know
and … I believed him.

I turned the corner as I followed his flying path as he left and found an isolated wall painted like checkered board in every color… with crosses in each square

And I stood there…
On a wild tour in the snowy winds in June,

First realizing
That these moments are mine
And they are beautiful

And they couldn’t be
without me being me
in my stillness and observation

Collecting memories

Like shining things
To nest with until they give way

Into poetry

I began writing at 16
On a hotel balcony
In Switzerland
In June

As the black birds flew….

 They used to roost in the back yard tree at night in Santa Fe… talking at dusk until the sun died.



This blue jay came to say that changes were on their way
18 days he said… in his clicking way
He would visit me every morning
For 18 days…
and she died.

My mother died
and the jay flew away.

Just before my father died,
He put post-it notes on all his things.
I inherited his music
His stereo…
His personal belongings…
and this was the last thing he had playing…

May both my parents be flying high!

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