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| Poetry Please start one thread for your own poetry and just add to it! |
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Practically Lives Here
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![]() The Underworld by Sharon Bryan When I lived in the foothills birds flocked to the feeder: house finches, goldfinches, skyblue lazuli buntings, impeccably dressed chickadees, sparrows in work clothes, even hummingbirds fastforwarding through the trees. Some of them disappeared after a week, headed north, I thought, with the sun. But the first cool day they were back, then gone, then back, more reliable than weathermen, and I realized they hadn't gone north at all, but up the mountain, as invisible to me as if they had flown a thousand miles, yet in reality just out of sight, out of reach— maybe at the end of our lives the world lifts that slightly away from us, and returns once or twice to see if we've refilled the feeder, if we still remember it, or if we've taken leave of our senses altogether. |
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