After the War
from Out With Lanterns, a daily poetry practice
From the patio, I watched a crow land on the roof, scratchy claws grasping, then one low squawk. Tilting his glassy eye, he balanced on his left leg, pulled up the right, watched me as he curled his foot then stretched it out under his shiny, black wing. Each shingle a step, he walked, surveying, calling again. Red shouldered hawk replied, chiggering in the distance. House finch sang for its sweetheart. Earlier, I saw footage, aftermath of a bomb. First just dust, echoing silence, then miraculous birdsong reminding us there’s still a way to cherish a ravaged place.
I love the close up vibrant details of the birds - claw, eye, wing - and the back and forth of their songs. It all left me unprepared for the understated shock of the ending, its silence. Your last line is powerful, and resonates. It's so true, so pertinent. So many 'ravaged places' - and may I take your image a little further and say it speaks to me of people with ravaged hearts, maybe even ourselves, and that it's imperative, and possible, to keep on cherishing them.
So good. I find grounding in listening to the birds too.