By: Timothy Russell

They whirled and flurried from the sky.
They came to me in the middle of the night,
some silently, some clumsily bumping into things.
They stuck their tongues in my mouth.
Some slunk along the edge of the river bank
like feral cats. Some ran ahead of me
like those bumpkins in Pamplona.
They flicked their beautiful tail feathers.
They took things personally and sulked or pouted.
They undressed and they got dressed.
They spoke to strangers and took up with them.
Some recovered from one trauma or another.
Some did not. One saved somebody’s life.
They fed me. They traveled with me.
They ventured out of the woods
and nibbled dead meat beside the highway.
They whispered in my good ear.
They scuttled down the street
behind cars and muscular pickups.
They got taken in by shysters.
Some went off somewhere to find themselves.
They danced around in skimpy outfits.
Some slowly became themselves
as if they had no idea what else to do.

Story Tags: poem || poetry || Selected Poems || Timothy Russell