Lisa Mednick Powell

Poetry Blast July 23 2011

This morning, over a hearty breakfast of benadryl and coffee, I watched a sparrow cling to the stucco wall outside. The bird had a tuft of white fluff in its beak. They have this nest-tropolis under the eaves of the porch out there. A whole colony. They are always scuffling and peeping and fussing around. Anyway, this bird had discovered the results of our having brushed the dog yesterday. Luna is a Husky mix and is shedding her undercoat like crazy. She doesn't need it right now; it's hot. The bird figured: Hey, this is something I can use. When we do home improvements, we study and measure and shop for insulation material, wondering what will work best. But...the dog just knows and the bird just knows. Are we just stupid? The Sandpiper by Elizabeth Bishop The roaring alongside he takes for granted, and that every so often the world is bound to shake. He runs, he runs to the south, finical, awkward, in a state of controlled panic, a student of Blake. The beach hisses like fat. On his left, a sheet of interrupting water comes and goes and glazes over his dark and brittle feet. He runs straight through it, watching his toes. --Watching, rather, the spaces of sand between them, where (no detail too small) the Atlantic drains rapidly backwards and downwards. As he runs, he stares at the dragging grains. The world is a mist. And then the world is minute and vast and clear. The tide is higher or lower. He couldn't tell you which. His beak is focused; he is preoccupied, looking for something, something, something, Poor bird, he is obsessed! The millions of grains are black, white, tan, and gray, mixed with quartz grains, rose, and amethyst. Then, there's Blake, of course: (you get the text if you click on the "see more" button under the viewing window.)