Jackdaw, or
Jackdaw, or
we, at the intersection of corvus
and aphid, robed in drizzle gut and
muck lump, street leak, are
reclaimed through ooze. Our
roots exposed to
be a hotel of electric
wiring running the length
of the city, dotted with crow
nodes and the rare technician.
Maybe Leonard meant
everything fuel for everything —
a way to be free. Seep to bloom,
shell to leaf.
Tufted scavenger contorting,
poet of gravity. Blackened mouth
thrown open to speak.
This poem is dedicated to the city planner that decided to plant a very aphid-prone tree all the way down our street. These bugs leak on whatever is under them, creating a remarkably sticky film on the cars and the road. There’s probably a follow-up poem in the steady peeling sound of the bike tire passing on the street.
I was listening to Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on a Wire” for the first time in a while and was struck by the entire world within the refrain. Three simple lines that run a full range of freedom and experience.
Like a bird on a wire
Like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free
While puzzling through the many meanings, I watched crow after crow come to a soft landing next to our aphid tree. It’s incredible that they can eat almost anything and be nourished, nourishing in return.
I’ve been reading a bunch of books by Max Porter, including Grief is a Thing With Feathers (narrated by a crow) and some Carlo Rovelli. Wild stuff.
I had a different word in the recorded version but changed it right before sending. A recommendation from D.
Thanks for reading (and thanks, D!)