Smidgens
Alien Intruder or just the shadow of a nerd?
Burnt Lake, Oregon, September 2017
(The Square Peg)
On the roof of this five-story building is a forest of tar, softening in the summer, seeping rain in the winter. Pigeons roost there. Not in the tar itself, but in little areas where vents pop out above the forest. There is one larger vent, a two feet wide tube, that makes its way straight down to the bottom floor. At the bottom floor there’s an L joint, where the tube zig zags before turning back down, making its final destination, the extinct steam broiler in the basement. That L joint is exposed in a retail shop.
Occasionally, pigeons fall down the vent from the roof, even if the top of the vent is roofed and fenced to stop them from roosting. Pigeons must roost. Since it’s a vertical drop and pigeons can’t fly like helicopters, they get stuck in the L joint. There’s no way to get to them, unless you take apart the pieces of the vent, shaped sheet metal, in sections, painted over in decades of lead paint. This, to the best of my knowledge has never happened. The pigeons scratch with desperate claws for a few days. Then silence.
(Next week, a hole will be cut in the side of the L joint. A little sliding metal door will be fixed to its side. Inside the vent, countless skeletons and feathers of numerous pigeons. Their remains will be placed to rest in respect. Now, when the scratching of claws is heard, I will take a very tall ladder and slide open the little metal door.)
I sit with her
Placing her in memory
Giving thoughts strength, yet
In her silence, she frightens me.
I rely on others
Camping upon her shore
To soothe my worry.
And although I haven’t
Seen her rimmed with snow
Echoing the clearest of nights,
Pitted with raindrops
Upon her clear face,
Witnessed her held tight
By mist and clouds,
I know she has experienced this.
She reflects me
Placing me inside her memory
Giving strength to her beauty, yet
In my silence, I frighten her.
She relies on the stream
And springs to ease her.
And although she hasn’t seen
All who I love, have loved,
My stumbles and woes
On nights of anxiety,
My elations and successes,
The clatter of the city
Reverberates within me
She knows I have experienced this.
elanmudrow@gmail.com
via Urban Mimesis — Elan Mudrow Photography
Fire had sustained, now it consumes in a slow gesture. Fingers—intact—same shape as they were before, can’t conduct. Invoking is a painted portrait, prepared each morning in the image of the moon.
Flame like flowers still shoots spells. Stems like wands direct their colors, greens, reds, yellows. The good ember, still visible—kindled, licks of heat, whispers of words—reignite.
