Reflection After Sunrise

The solitary robin
sings his lonely heart out

perched on a poplar limb
on the verge of deep woods
he trills a bright morning blues

that throbs at his breast
longing for his love
his lost mate

who flew the nest
once the fledglings
took to wing

as the climbing cat
arrived and disrupted
love with hunger

I drove him away
with a stone that struck
inches above his head

for I know the robin’s loss
his broken life, feel it in
imagination’s heart in
my pulsing blood

      now that
      are gone

By Gene Gobel
August, 2017

solitary robin in tree

Photo of American Robin by Timothy Holle

Bird-Watching Myna

Truly social, sharing bird,
jumping at slightest instant,
chattering, varying-voice,
trying all possible chords
to perfect its inimitable call,
landed on a compound
with noisy wings.

Trudging aggressively,
raising commotion for
no good reason, no logic,
no syllogism.
Scouting around on restless
yellow legs, misleading
me with bright
yellow-encircled eyes.

Bird-watching through
clear, glass window,
of my modest home, I wished
to know their musical chatter
immensely and

By Thriveni C Mysore

Myna ruffling feathers

Thriveni C Mysore is a science teacher from Karnataka, India.
She loves Philosophy and finds solace in Nature Poetry.

Photo of Myna By Anton Croos, Wikimedia Commons

Hummingbird Conversations

Around the feeder ruby-throated
hummingbirds swoop flit hover
dance and fight and I wish
I could hear their
wingbeat conversations.
What would they tell me?

Do they discuss the weather
the local nest situation
compare the quality of spider silk
swap migration route stories
or point out their favorite flowers?
Do they have a pecking order
who goes first and why?

Maybe they talk about politics
or health insurance
immigration or crop prices
probably not though.
How would it feel to be
in the tiny jeweled body
buzzing around
unable to be still
always moving
a heart beating
six hundred times a minute.

If I could feel that I’d know
what it feels like to fly across
the Gulf of Mexico
hover swoop dive and
taste the nectar of a
hundred thousand

By Carol Carpenter

hummingbird with spread wings

Photo by the author

Doves Laughing

White winged doves flock
To the tray of sunflower seeds
Like bargain shoppers
Rooting through merchandise
As far as I can tell
They are all identical twins
Dressed alike by Mother Nature
A swift brush stroke of white
Along the tip of each wing
They bicker and preen
And stab their beaks at seeds
Making cooing sounds
Like tiny bursts of laughter
And bubbly conversations
Comparing their attire
And the slight variations
Of their white wing tips
Until the jay arrives
Dressed in his blue
Military uniform, bristling
With aggressive purpose
And the doves all scatter
Still laughing.

By C J Clark

doves on bird feeder

I am an artist, hospice nurse and fiction author of two published novels, The Permanence of Waves and When Color Fades (LangMarc Publishing 2011/2013). Cien Pamieci, the Polish translation of When Color Fades was published by Proszynski Media (2013). My poetry has been published in Verse-Virtual poetry journal (2017) and by Transcendent Zero Press in Harbinger Asylum magazine (summer 2017). Doves Laughing is another from my collection titled Raining Pears on Sunday. It is always my hope that my poetry illuminates the subtle moments of nature’s brilliance and flatters earth’s perfections.

Photo of doves on feeder by Glenn Dean

Isolde on the Shoulder of St. Andrew

Revelations 19:17 – ” I saw an angel standing in the sun; and he cried with a
loud voice, saying to all the fowls that fly in the midst of heaven, Come and
gather together…”

I am she, that red-tail hawk, flashy with hook,
flaunting bravado, pledging a full-fledged
raptor monogamy of nest.
Binoc-ogling onlookers down
on Morningside Drive called me Isolde
and my first mate, Tristan who died.

We built a nest first on the face
of the cathedral of St. John the Divine –
on St. Andrew’s marble shoulder chosen
over the host of others – welcomed
to his loaves and fishes, his saltire
lifting our twigs and branches.
From a parapet, Tristan who died guarded sunsets.

After Tristan who died, Norman, until Hurricane Sandy.
Those below admire my resilient choices
of stalwart mates on a statued saint.
My talons grab Andrew’s stone scalp – balding
above sooted eyes and robe of algae,
I sky-watch south park, hear road
roar, smell the Hudson’s tired roll.

St. Andrew holds for me. Where St. John saw
white horses, sinners on broad shoulders
of betrayal, angels lugging vials of wrath –
my beak’s my sword. I slash the hustling
low-below of pigeons, squirrels, rats,
finding enough from this church wall
to feed my eyases.

I wait atop a secure saint,
outliving mates.
Me – the faithless, faithful non-aspirant
to pass through eternity’s guarded gates.

By Tricia Knoll

peregrine falcon perched on side of building

Knoll_Author_PhotoI wrote my chapbook Urban Wild (Finishing Line Press) some years ago and spent time looking for stories and events that highlighted the interface between wild creatures and humans in urban habitat. I live near a small creek in Portland which is a corridor for coyotes. Each fall a pileated woodpecker comes back to investigate my alder trees. I was captivated by this story of Isolde and the other red tails who have found niches in New York City. Website:

Click here to see a photo of Isolde on the shoulder of St Andrew and other stories of  hawks in New York City.

Photo of peregrine falcon by Michael Lane