From the quiver
1. Birds of arrows loosed upon the earth before a backdrop of blood red sunsets, thieves who would take for themselves, yet they flirt through the air, float in the lake breeze, and cover these dunes with their volley of death. 2. Rain from the quiver, wet pillow, no threat from the sky. Rest today. Rest. 3. All creatures eat and eat, tongues lick and teeth clack tearing into life, love is what they know, only one feathered wing remains on the sand, and the nestlings are satiated.
Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while in this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.
Brian
This is a beautiful poem and I love the reflection of how it came together.
What you describe is what I hope for with Substack but most reader are simply complementary but not critical. I read with a critical eye always and here are some thoughts.
1. Why are ducks considered a "volley of death"? I understand the are a quiver but a duck, in and of himself, is not any deliverer of death except for June bugs and worms.
2. do duck flirt through the air? What are they flirting with, each other, the air, with death?
3. Since the focus is mostly ducks or birds, to include teeth as an image doesn't feel right.
I like the Maya Popa environment and wish we could have more of that here on Substack. Thanks for the cool poem, Brian. ps. I thought you might shape the poem like an arrow or like a flock on the wing or a wing itself. Wes