Robin
Had I left the window open
you wouldn’t have recorded for me
in dust from your feathers
this impression of joy,
etched, as it were,
on the absolute hardness of glass,
a thing I would not have noticed
had the morning sun not slid
suddenly above my neighbor’s roofline
to backlight your final pattern
at the exact moment of my looking:
there you are, in the moment,
breast fringed with down,
both wings seductively wide,
all the primaries,
most of the secondaries, there,
shafts and barbs finely sketched
in powder, forward force
the inspiration, enough force to bring
the brush of your tail
forward and even with your wings.
The downward twist of your head,
the beak an unlikely angle,
your right eye open and foremost,
you are three dimensions
translated into two,
your portion of time equated to zero.
If I lean out, I know
I will see you on the bricks below,
perhaps one wing folded tight,
the other still seductively spread,
but I won’t look
and continue admiring your imprint
until the sun blinks behind my neighbor’s oak
and you disappear.
JEFFREY L. HOLLMAN‘s primary writing has focused on plays. Since 2005, he has had a number produced in New York, the first, Real Danger, being a one month full-Equity run. Bird Watching, a one act, was Runner Up out of 38 plays in the Strawberry Festival and was published by the Festival in 2010. He has always written poetry but has not submitted many until now.
Twyckenham Notes 