October

A poem for all the birds listening.

I’m listening.

To cricket symphonies that will vanish without warning. Their first string solo’s lilting to a coda I’m not quite ready to greet.

I didn’t notice the Phytolacca taking root, those heavy, deceptive berries, hanging like invisible labor, weaponized competence, and false inevitability.

Didn’t realize I’d been taken in by their infectious melody, a siren song disguised as a lullaby.

Efficiency,

Productivity

Masking poisonous seeds.

Such a shiny coup, exhausting by design.

But the nasturtium blossom whispered to me, and I’m turning towards cooing mourning instead.

This little squab, unassuming, underestimated, unhurried. May we forever be.

My bevy, waiting patiently to swallow the flock and take glorious flight.

-R.C.S