The Poetry of Feathered Things

In Palisade at the foot of the Grand Mesa (known to the Ute as Thunder Mountain), we are fortunate to have many visitors in the form of birds. From piñon jays to white crowned sparrows to western kings to quail to great horned owls, we are enchanted by the changing seasons which seem to conduct the warbling, singing, cooing and hooting of these magical and often mysterious creatures. 

The Owl

Beneath her nest, 
a shrew’s head,
a finch’s beak, 

and the bones

of a quail attest 
the owl devours 
the hour, 

and disregards the rest.

In the spring of last year, I was walking in our unfenced backyard, which is high desert wilderness at the edge of a steep ravine, and I suddenly came upon a full-grown Canada Goose. He was standing on the red-dirt path we had lined with stones many years ago — and he was looking directly at me.   

I’ve never seen a wild goose anywhere near our high desert home, much less in our backyard, so I was surprised and perplexed by his sudden appearance. 

This unlikely visitor began walking in agitated circles, as if trying to tell me something. He then walked to the very edge and looked down into the ravine, which was thick with rabbit brush and greasewood. I could see nothing unusual down there. 

I stayed with him a couple of hours until it became clear he wasn’t going anywhere. His eyes were fixed on the bottom of the ravine. I made my way back to the house to do some online research on Canada geese who seem to have lost their way or lost their flock. What I discovered was that geese are monogamous, mate for life and are deeply loyal. When a goose loses a mate, they stay at the place where the loss occurred for days, weeks, sometimes months — until the grieving process has passed. 

This poor guy’s mate had likely been struck down and fallen into the ravine. 

After a couple of days, I became fearful that he would become bait for the coyote, so I led him (with a little encouragement) into our fenced front yard. There he stayed (with a small plastic swimming pool and various kinds of food) until a few weeks later when he joined a gaggle of geese passing overhead. 

It shouldn’t be a surprise that birds grieve, but I must tell you the grief of that crestfallen goose was palpable — and heartbreaking. 

Most Everything

The desert is the only place
where green is green and blue is blue.
Walking the desert I have seen

most everything. I’ve seen a you
with darkened eyes and grounded wing.
And deep in the desert, no one knew.

As winter surrenders to spring here on the east end of the Grand Valley, I swing open the windows in the afternoons to let the birdsong in. I try not to feed the birds during the growing season, as they really don’t need it, but during the winter I keep the feeders full.  

Stealing the Show 

All through the winter 
a chittering 
of dark-eyed juncos 

at the feeder
have stolen the show, 
have braved the falling snow, 

have found themselves 
some semblance 
of warmth 

and a tiny little home,  
here, between the lines 
in my little poems.

Many years ago, when my husband and I were living overseas, we took a trip to the site of one of the old concentration camps in Germany. It wasn’t the kind of trip one gets excited about, but was one we felt we needed to do. 

As our tour bus approached our grim destination, everybody on the bus became hushed. We didn’t know what to expect as we filed out of the bus and into the woods.  

We only knew we were there to pay our respects.

I recall the day vividly: it was sunny and all around us the birds were chirping, singing and tending to their nests. The moment we entered the camp, however, which was marked off by a barbed wire fence, the birds were quite suddenly, conspicuously silent. 

The silence was, in fact, deafening. The birdsong hadn’t just disappeared; it seemed the air itself was perfectly still. 

We all took our cue from this and toured that awful place in absolute silence. 

Afterwards, as we all filed out of the site where those terrible atrocities had occurred, the birds returned, their songs and movement and nesting activities filling the air once again. 

The poet Emily Dickinson tells us that hope is a thing with feathers. I suppose I had always thought this a clever metaphor until that day in the woods in Germany.

But my experiences aren’t unique. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t have some kind of story about a bird that appeared in their lives — at the windowsill, in their backyard or overhead — at a time when it was most meaningful to them.  

If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, it’s that we humans are drawn to beauty, are moved by song, are healed by the natural world, and we often spend our lives seeking some kind of meaning.   

And meaning is deeply personal and intimate. It seems to me that meaning is ever changing and is much like birds — ever taking flight, vanishing, singing up the sun and alighting unexpectedly at the center of our lives. 

For the Birds

The chickadee is all about truth. 
The finch is a token. The albatross 
is always an omen. The kestrel is mental, 
the lark is luck, the grouse is dance, 
the goose is quest. The need for speed 
is given the peregrine, and the dove’s 
been blessed with the feminine.  

The quail is word, and culpability.  
The crane is the dean of poetry. 
The swift is the means to agility, 
the waxwing mere civility,
the sparrow a nod to working class

nobility. The puffin’s the brother 
of laughter, and prayer, the starling the student 
of Baudelaire. The mockingbird 
is the sound of redress, the grackle the uncle 
of excess. The flicker is rhythm, 

the ostrich is earth, the bluebird a simple 
symbol of mirth. The oriole 
is the fresh start. The magpie prince 
of the dark arts. The swallow is home
and protection — the vulture the priest 

of purification, the heron a font 
of self-reflection. The swisher belongs 
to the faery realm. Resourcefulness 
is the cactus wren. The pheasant is sex, 
the chicken is egg, the eagle is free, 

the canary the bringer of ecstasy.
The martin is peace. The stork is release. 
The swan is the mother of cool discretion.  
The loon is the watery voice of the moon.  
The owl’s the keeper of secrets, grief
and fresh fallen snow, and the crow, 
the crow has the bones of the ancestral soul.

Originally published in the Spring 2025 issue of Spoke+Blossom.