If the wind in the trees is a bird
and the rains, ceaseless tonight,
are pteradactyls crooning,
then birds are all night frolicking with their ancestress
pteradactyls
(a name I always thought meant these ancient shark-like ravens
with their leathery wings, were poets, shrieking dactyls)
the birds and the aflying dinosaurs are rampaging
and i dream of wet, sodden gardens
where all the seeds are obliterating into fine mash
the soggy dream ground cannot grow anything
with all these birds and dinosaurs calling (storms arriving)
what happens when our creative spirit
encounters a nor'wester
I know pathetic fallacy isn't a fallacy
but there's a moment here, a poem
drowing in air, pummeling and soaring
its way to earth from the birdcloudpeople
a poem, can it make it
through the storm
to drop on my head
and open my mouth
with a bit of that oldsong,
the dinosaurbreath,
the terra dactyls and spondees responding
in my glottal stop, tongue untying
if i snapped on the lights now
and looked at my profile
would is see a beak there
or just these opened lips caw-crowdling
dream miasmas
dropping from the words
soaring into sight?
