"pilots" poems - Hello Poetry

What we have named Fire Escape (an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail) had made picture geometries in my west window well-framed and flat--set foreground and background in two dimensions, as the sun hid, and my round eye opened. What we have named Fire Escape was flaked-paint brown orange, as if first it had been born of a flame and then had taken up living as metal-- tempered itself into usefulness, which I should trust now, in case of the yelling and the engines. What we have named Fire Escape was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane for the sparrows I saw this morning which flitted and wildly played within, rising up arched and back again. Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs-- a tunnel entrance or ducking posts, or highway bridges to clear; the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots each following each, going under. No sparrow would ever crash. And what is this I remember now? How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay? As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture-- a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit? Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast. Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined, to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less. That morning, with the very last sparrow gone, I remember that nothing in my sight moved, save an American flag at a distance in the wind, with its one red-white striped wing waving toward the cold north, as the white church spire, framed in open quadrilaterals, held its position.

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Apr 15, 2013

Apr 15, 2013 at 5:18 AM UTC

sam-hawkins

A Fire Escape of Sparrows

What we have named Fire Escape (an ordered, angular tangle of ladders and rail) had made picture geometries in my west window well-framed and flat--set foreground and background in two dimensions, as the sun hid, and my round eye opened. What we have named Fire Escape was flaked-paint brown orange, as if first it had been born of a flame and then had taken up living as metal-- tempered itself into usefulness, which I should trust now, in case of the yelling and the engines. What we have named Fire Escape was happy Jungle Jim or Jungle for Jane for the sparrows I saw this morning which flitted and wildly played within, rising up arched and back again. Made of the square pairs of ladder rungs-- a tunnel entrance or ducking posts, or highway bridges to clear; the birds like small plane, daredevil pilots each following each, going under. No sparrow would ever crash. And what is this I remember now? How one bird eased its engine and perched there to stay? As if to offer me, with a little turn of head gesture-- a thank you, for the bread I'd left on the sill? Or to say I'd better shut the curtain and make my exit? Either prideful guess gets me nowhere fast. Failed even is speaking in any sparrow languages from my recline stuffed chair; again, but now imagined, to draw beady eyes to fix on me, telling me much less. That morning, with the very last sparrow gone, I remember that nothing in my sight moved, save an American flag at a distance in the wind, with its one red-white striped wing waving toward the cold north, as the white church spire, framed in open quadrilaterals, held its position.