Clothespins on the Line

look like birds. Scrawny winter   birds   balanced by   two   sarong tail   feathers.   Some   look west, others north- east   toward   the mountain.   Stiff in the   cold & remote.   They  haven’t  been   loved enough.   They grow thinner   and thinner   in their   woody streaked   feathers,   held together  only   by the exposed   spiral   of   internal organs.   After  a  while ,   the sun comes out and   all o f   the birds,   clutching   wire,   turn an     electric            silver. This is     hopeful,,    but doesn’t   last.         Clouds take a  break   from   one   another , , re- convene.   A half-inch of snow is rolled out   with   perfect    evenness across               the picnic   table,   as though someone made a blank for what was coming.    The nice thing about   clothespin    birds   is             they   don’t “excrete.” Jays   &   grosbeaks   &   finches &      mourning    doves    + ravens   leave their   paintings everywhere , on   benches & limbs ,, , on fallen pine needle fascicles \|/ feldspar & quartz _ __ though   all  has  now   become gesso    beneath    snow.   After   a  certain amount   of feeling hopelessly under- accomplished,   you look at   your   nails and   want   to paint them.         Is this how   birds feel?                 No.         Birds fly and   don’t    look down.      Or,   they   sit   `’’   amid branches and    peck   at the   brittle   waffled   bark & tiny    bugs    buried in   the marrow.  .<sszt sszt sszt.<   You, too, peck.  Familiar letters    on t he   keys have   lost their    definition        and   resemble   finger- tip-size   daubs of   bird   paint   on back- lit platforms.   You   recall the s   e&m only   via   entrenched   neural   pathways , while   the l and c continue to morph   into tiny   archaic symbols.    As though,  the  unconscious is forming      a message.       ( Always   “it”   has   something unearthly     to say. ) Except the unconscious is the earth ,    it’s   just   we don’t  know   how   she               does it. St. Thomas of Aquinas  got  a delirium hit of   t hat   at the end and decided  to   marry   it.   Each day your thumbs   grow   paler,   nails   coarser,   evolving toward   the ptero- dactyl: part  reptile,  part   bird. As  a  child pterodactyls   scared you,         which meant they   had  your             attention.   Refusing to stay in   the   lineage,         they became their  own            form. They had  an  iguana       for     a     father and  a   pelican   for  a    mom, crispy  and  dipped  in  molasses. If you were big enough you could   eat   them the  way   some people   eat grass- hoppers.  Compulsive hole- punchers,  if less   manic could be    sculptors, though it requires d-e-t-a-c-h-m-e-n-t to see  it    that way , , if  you  are a   lilac   leaf   sketching   outside the   library   window.        What are those    books doing   in there   together ?!                  Nothing ! When a   new    one arrives,   they   fall  in love,,  one   by one.  Inside  their  covers, a   million   leaves, each w/  black   growth.     A pattern of       fungus , the  shed  skin  of          snakes  &  dna traces.   Like   bird   poop, but   more orderly     and the message is   see- through. Don’t you wish    you   could   lift   the   letters and   release them       halfway back   to the  liquid   state ,, ,   before they   got   connected   to the   circuitry?   It might be    kind   of relaxing.  You might be as good of a painter as a         cuckoo    bird.    A few nights   ago you  dreamt   you were very     pregnant & in need of    a  place       to give   birth.   Your  boyfriend had   left         you     and  2    therapists let   you    live         w/ them because   you    resembled   their     daughter  — though they were     suspicious.   Who    can blame  them? As for your nails, find  a     mani- curist,   someone  who   knows   what they are doing.  Druids never  lived   here, that was    Europe,    but  you and   the   sage- brush are   distantly   related      via     microbial ancestors;         in spite of    yourself,   you are surrounded by   family.   \\|/