found this one today. too many feathers to sit in the nest. too few to really fly. pity, it would have made a wonderful sparrow one day. mother nature sometimes goes for the smartest, not the fittest, it seems (sigh). Advertisements
from where i sit, through the sunlit stain-glass, you are shadows flitting up and sideways against the light, building a continuation to things i barely understand. from the outside, i cannot reach skywards enough, so deep etched in the eaves is your work. little sounds, chirping, dollops of mud and what liquid you find to…
wind marches over the green-less tops of occasional oaks and larches he sits, all ruffled beady-eyed, watchful, face close to the wind the grey patches overhead run amok, scattering the hoard of blue the sky protected so hard his colleagues gather in other trees, taking top places, discussing the recent, waiting for something to crop…
white reflects all light. so the thought of purity and so on is a little far-fetched, yet many still adhere to it. white does not allow anything too close to contaminate it. it is the colour of aloofness. and yet – when the white snow covers the mud and the little (and the gross) indiscretions…
we made a dream-catcher. from willow and some knobbly yarn and two feathers – i think one was from a crow, and one, from a pigeon. the pigeon feather was picked up in the forest, how i came by the crow feather, i do not recall. and we put in two spiders – i thought they…
pain remains. in its incapacitating, insane clarity, pain remains. and suddenly, there is no space for questions of why and what for, because there is only that which is. pain. it will pass, at some point, i know, this is only a bout, a fit, incomplete and unfinished, searing the edges of what i thought…
this is a translation from “Dīvainā karaļvalsts” (The strange kingdom) by J. Rubenis. i kinda found it a little bit inspiring. especially the bird part. PUTNU SARUNA Reiz divi putni pils dārzā savā starpā sarunājās. “Bruņinieks saprot putnu valodu un ir nelaimīgs, jo viņš arī grib būt putns,” teica viens. “Vērojot putnus, viņš ir iemācījies…
the goose knows the magnetic poles, and can fly at night, navigating through weather and time, rain and wind, finding the track their parents have shown them only once before. the goose knows which grasses are good, which grains help you grow, how to build nest so that the younglings are safe, and where to…
the april sun has melted the snows. mostly. the sparrows run round with huge fluffy visages of feathers and bits of string if they can get any. the starlings wreak havoc on lawns, and mayhem in the branches of the trees they consider their home now. the crows have finished building the nests, and now…
at some point wolfie said sth like – everyone has one’s own birds in their head. and i suddenly thought – gee, what a brilliant formulation. those idees fixe, bees in the bonnet, little tantalising grains of sand in the brainmachine… maybe they are just birds, mucking around and having fun inside our brainspace. and…
even if living here, one is supposed to be proud of the winters with their cold and snow and blizzards and ice and whatnot, and sort of look down on the ‘southern softies’, i sometimes think that a more temperate climate would be an advantage. i am bored by monochrome. i want daffodils. but the…
a swish of soot-black, a flash of bright yellow, a song of explosive laugher… blackbird in snow.
creeps into my bed, following the patterns of moonlight. do i care? do i know. a friend said i looked tired. i guess i am. emotionally. but there is little respite right now. this week, and then two more weeks. to last, to survive. and then practice the non-celebration of birthday of birthdays. hide from…
have left. this was on the news. i woke up grey today, like the earth and the sky, and the fallen leaves in the mist. and i thought, those swan-less days before the first snow touches down will be as grey as i will think them. i have to put up the bird feeder soon.…
this autumn is not rich in frosts, so the maple leaves turn bright yellow which creates an air of lucidity hard to describe, whatever the colour of the sky. especially when the sky is grey. it seems the sun herself* has come down for a visit ever so brief before the passing of the light.…
