In memory of Forrest Bird, who saved the lives of millions
A little Bird, singing all through the night
A plastic box of green mechanicals
Its soft, subtle hiss-click there breathing life
Into and through the wreckages of boys
Americans, mostly, Vietnamese
Koreans, Cambodians, Lao, Hmong
And one who might have been a Russian (shhhhh….) -
The pretty Bird sang in their languages
And when they woke, the soft song that they heard
Was whispered to them by a little green Bird
May 13, 2018
May 13, 2018 at 3:31 PM UTC
In memory of Forrest Bird, who saved the lives of millions
A little Bird, singing all through the night
A plastic box of green mechanicals
Its soft, subtle hiss-click there breathing life
Into and through the wreckages of boys
Americans, mostly, Vietnamese
Koreans, Cambodians, Lao, Hmong
And one who might have been a Russian (shhhhh….) -
The pretty Bird sang in their languages
And when they woke, the soft song that they heard
Was whispered to them by a little green Bird
Okay, a poem about a machine is suspiciously redolent of Socialist Realism, but I’m not ready to write an ode to a tractor factory.