Strange Bird

The tiniest bird

The size of a thumb

Skips from twig tip to twig tip

To the beat of its own odd drum


Branches stretch, reach,

grow and disappear

So thin and numerous

Where exactly they dissolve is unclear


There at end of a branch

Is the passage

From the theatre of consciousness

Into the realm of the real


How? Why?

The little bird does not care

For questions about the air

It tousles in teardrop leaves

Ruffles its feathers to shake the misty rain

What species?


Perhaps never seen before

Like the countless other mysterious critters in the virgin jungle

Every plant in sight is a different color

Shape, smell, character


The bird has vanished

A tiny purple flower remains

On the treetop that begins to rustle in fresh rain

Puffy clouds roll over the rainbow cliffs beyond

Pillars of black, caramel and cream melt like stacks of wax

Insects’ high-pitched shrieks begin to throttle

The air, thick with life, is shaken by the choppy crackle

Of a strange bird song

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