H?H: Admin Text Challenge

chickadees in the ash
robins in the pine
sparrows in the oak

tiny little pairs flitter
in the air, a busy cloud

beds of bright green moss worked from a sidewalk crack
bowls of long-stomped mud, cool and smoothly packed
piles of chaos, feathers grass and plastic wrap
each molds a home from nothing

stopping only to sing
dusk brings pause
to announce the joy of being

chickadees in the ash
robins in the pine
sparrows in the oak

and then
fragile globes
life

silky smooth spots on a milkdrop
tiny gems the color of sky
a soap bubble rolled in the dirt
treasures beyond price

always one warming, one warding
not affording one moment of sleep
without an eye open

and then
tiny movements

mouths the size of heads
heads the size of pebbles
world the size of call, eat, sleep
but that's big enough for now

for chickadees in the ash
robins in the pine
sparrows in the oak

icy needles poke through cracks
in bowls of moss and mud smooth-packed.
piles of chaos don't hold back
invaders seeking
scrabbling at the door

shadows passing quickly
tiny bodies thin and sickly
beg for warmth no more

all those hours of loving care
swept into the early morning
sit and sing to mourn, to share
a loss

heads cocked and straightened
minds shocked and weighted
with the dream of family

then gone, to a secret place of sorrow
back, in only days
fly again

tiny little pairs flitter
in the air, a busy cloud
try again

chickadees in the ash.
robins in the pine.
sparrows in the oak.

I’m a celebrity. Okay, I’m a minor celebrity. Very minor. On the Great List of Celebrities, I’d be on the last page. Before last week, you probably never heard of me, but I’ll bet that you heard of the character I play.

Buddy Bluebird. Yup, the same Buddy Bluebird that you see on the TV selling all the Bluebird Burgers to all the fast-food fanatics across the country. You know. Governor French Fries, Admiral Choco Shake, Señior Poncho Burrito, Sally Side Salad and the whole darn Bluebird Burger Battalion.

I’m the original star of the show. I was hired almost twenty years ago by old Bradley “Blue” Byrd himself when I was a mime down in the Battery. In twenty years, I’ve acted in something like three hundred TV commercials. Every time you see a Bluebird Burger commercial during the Saturday morning cartoons, I’m there. That six foot, orange-beaked, burger-shilling bluebird is me.

Scratch that. Was me.

Last week, the whole cast was on the road. Promo tour. Bus tour. Man, we all hate those things, but what are you going to do? Bluebird Burger pays the bills, and Bluebird Burger wants us at just about every supermarket opening and backwater morning show in the country.

It’s the morning shows that I really hate. I’m not exactly a morning person, see. And that’s stating it mildly. I kind of like the night life, or whatever passes for night life out in the boondocks.

Last Wednesday night we pulled into St. Paul, Minnesota. Minnie-soh-ter, I like to call it. Boring people, those Minnie-soh-ters. I think they roll up the streets at nine o’clock.

Luckily, the motel that we were staying at had a bar. Typical motel bar, except that they actually had a decent little blues band playing, and a couple of cute Minnie-soh-ter girls looking to get picked up.

Long story short, I’m at the bar until two, and I don’t exactly nod off until around four, if you get me. Freddy, our driver slash roadie slash corporate stooge, was pounding on my door at five-thirty. Five-thirty.

We’ve got one of those wake-up shows to do. That means that we got to be in our costumes, and jumping around all chipper and everything, at seven in the morning.

I got dressed, and I mean in the bluebird suit. Big feathery pants. Orange leggings and stupid orange bird feet that are bigger than any clown shoes you’ve ever seen. At five-thirty in the morning, I’m not going to get dressed twice.

I drag Debbie or Donna or whatever her name is out of the sack and show her the door. I’m not going to leave her alone in there to steal my real clothes. She calls me the usual names, only with that Minnie-soh-ter accent so it’s kind of funny, and then I pull myself onto the bus, the big blue bird head tucked under my arm.

I have my morning breakfast in the bus on the way to the TV studio. Breakfast consists of a drive-up Bluebird Burger coffee and a cigarette. What I don’t notice is that a hot ash from my smoke dropped into my costume. Right in there with the fake feathers, just kind of smoldering. No one else noticed it either.

A few minutes later we’re outside the studio in full uniform. We’re on the street with a reporter, a camera guy and about a dozen gawkers. This morning show is a real Today Show wanna-be.

We’re hopping around, doing our trademarked antics for the TV, when all of a sudden I burst into flames from the cigarette ash. I’m swearing and pulling my bird costume off and doing a whole new dance for the TV audience. Problem is, I kind of forgot to put anything on under my costume. All of the greater St. Paul area gets the opportunity to admire my full glory. Unfortunately, they’re unimpressed.

Now, I’m not burned bad or anything, but I’m naked as a bluebird and shivering in the chilly Minnie-soh-ter morning. Sure, the cameras got turned off, but they aired about ten seconds of full, raw Buddy Bluebird glory.

Freddy fires me on the spot. I didn’t even know he could do that. The rest of the cast piles into the bus without even saying adieu, and I’m standing in the street with feathers around my ankles.

Ha. Right now, I’m a bigger celebrity than ever. Overnight, my little adventure is one of the most-viewed videos on the net. Some guy once said that there’s no such thing as bad publicity. I think that’s true. I may not have gainful employment at the moment but hey, that’s show biz.

And like another famous bird, don’t be surprised if this bluebird rises out of the ashes like a Phoenix. Hey, Phoenix! I have a cousin there who runs a dinner theater. I think I’ll give him a call.

I fear my entry's a lame duck
Just worked on it a smidgen
I feel I've let my sponsor down
Crapped on her like a pigeon

I entered on a lark and said
"A month? I'll get done soon"
But then my brain went dark and fled
I feel just like a loon

I should have asked for extra time
I should have written faster
But you try writing a decent rhyme
Titled Eupodotis melanogaster

In my dream the world lay stretched out close below me.

I floated on air, gliding over the treetops. My outstretched fingers seemed to bear the weight of me, and I realized suddenly that they were fingers no longer, but feathers. As I tested them my control failed, and I dropped toward the trees. I flapped my wings experimentally and rose higher, safely above the leaves.

I saw the forest below me with vision that had never been so sharp, so clear. Mice and squirrels caught glimpse of my shadow and scurried from their foraging to find safety, but I meant them no harm. I flexed my toes -- now retrices -- and turned toward the late-afternoon sun.

I know it sounds crazy, but all of this felt both brand new and perfectly normal -- as if I had always been a bird, and was never aware of it before.

Updrafts tickled the feathers on my belly as I flew over ridges. Smaller birds who strayed near my path veered off, startled by my presence. I would have smiled, if my beak would have allowed it; all of the birds were "smaller birds". I was the biggest thing on two wings and I knew it well.

At length I grew tired, and with an ease that came of instinct, came to rest in a beech tree, its leaves golden against my orange-brown feathers. From my perch I surveyed the forest floor, and saw nothing that could harm me. Short of a bobcat, nothing within twenty miles would dare try. Nothing on four legs, anyway. I felt safe and secure, and more alive than I ever have before.

So, that was my dream, mom. Now please don't take it personally, but I'll be skipping the turkey this year. Give me a little extra mashed potatoes and green beans, and let's call it good.

Lord of Language, Warden of Words
Most well-spoken of all birds,
Sacred Ibis, we beseech
your wisdom. Grant our wish: please teach
the wit and way to model speech
in such a way our prayers will reach
your ears, and so be stirred.

Holy Thoth, Lord Ra's tongue:
give us words; leave us not dumb.
Joyous paeans we'll intone
aloud to praise your gifts, alone
above all others. Do condone
our humble hymns, Bird-lord be-throned,
Accept our thanks and worship, sung.

It was an early Sunday morning on the grassy hill at the edge of the world.
The sun was rising, setting faraway fires all around the edge of the landscape as it stretched and yawned, and made further plans for the day. Most of which involved rising to a peak position in the sky and then deliberately and without pause following the arc through, to a point below the opposite horizon.
Silhouetted by the sun's orange glow, on a branch in the lone freckled spooftree, sat Bird washing his undergarments.
He was humming quietly to himself, a song or other about catching worms, and made plans of his own. Today he was finally going to fly.

Dog raised an eyebrow to a high enough position so that he could see above the tall dewy grass on which he was flatly resting his head. No food of any kind was in sight, so he shut his eyes again, hoping to go back to the dream where he was king dog of all things edible, and required by royal heritage to eat all day long.
His stomach made for an excellent alarm clock though, and growled a loud complaint that would not be sated by ethereal breakfast, no matter how feastly. It was a very old and wise stomach, who had grown accustomed to having it's way, and Dog knew not to upset it.
As he rose to his feet, his stomach clenched even tighter as it was exposed to the chill of the morning air. He scratched his head with his paw, walked up to the big freckled spooftree at the top of the hill, and promptly peed on it.

Bird was wearing his lucky scarf. It was a scarf he had gotten from his great aunt, big and fluffy and in way too many colors. He always felt a little safer wearing it, which obviously made it perfect for flying. He took a deep breath and walked out further on the leafy branch, closed his eyes and stood there for a moment. This was it, he had tried to fly many times before and failed, but today of all days he would succeed.
"All it takes is motivation", he said in a voice trembling with anticipation. It was something his great aunt had told him once, when he had asked her about the secret of flight.
"Motivation and not being completely drunk", she had continued, but it was mostly the first part that had stuck in his head. A breeze came carrying the sweet smell of success, and something else, less sweet, and sent Bird off the branch.

Dog caught a glimmer of something bright and colorful in the corner of his eye and turned his head to see what it was. A leaf wearing a scarf was falling towards him. No, not a leaf, more bird-shaped, like a bird perhaps. Like breakfast.
He bared his teeth, growling in unison with his belly and lunged at the apporaching ball of fluff.
Dog bit into one end of the scarf and tugged hard. It came loose and sent Bird spinning like a dreidel in the opposite direction.
"I'm flying!!!", Bird yelped in a drawn out vibrato as he flapped wildly while spinning out of Dog's reach.
"I'm hungry!!!", Dog growled back at the bird and crouched, muscles tensing.
Dog flung himself into the air, boosted by cheers of urgency from his stomach.
*Snap*. His teeth chomped shut loudly, the resulting gust of air propelling Bird further into the air with wings flailing.
"I'm a good cook" said Bird, flapping away briskly. "Do you like mayonnaise? I make my own you know. Without eggs of course! Wouldn't wanna be accused of being a cannibal now would I?"
*Snap*. Dog jumped after Bird again and again, each leap a little slower, not as full of energy, not as high.
Bird was tired too but the breeze started back up, and soon his wings became sturdier, more confident. The tree was below him now, the hill and the dog on it also. The patch of daisies, the road past the mill, everything became smaller than ever before.
Bird drew a deep breath and glided on, away and on. Happy.

Dog sniffed the air in disappointment, then huffed in sudden remembrance, and marched down the hill to his master's house. He guessed he could wait the five minutes until the usual breakfast time.

- Oh, but I'm scared.

- Don't be afraid, you'll love it!

- But..., but... what if I'm no good?

- You'll be fine. Don't worry.

- I don't know what to do.

- Just follow my lead, do like I do. You'll want to do it all the time afterwards, you'll see.

- But... but...

- Come on now, don't be such a baby, besides... you know you wanna!

So, with great trepidation, I took the leap of no return.

At first a feeling of dread, of spiraling down into emptiness.

Then I started to push, up... down... up... down... in a great rhythmic motion.

I started to rise.

I started to soar.

Wow! I can't believe this, it's awesome! Oooohhhh! OOOooohhhh! OOOOOooooohhhh!

Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!

A little bird's first time flying

Though birds of a feather
may flock together,

And an apple a day
keeps the doctor away
(or so they say)

I propose that cliches are mush.

For when offered the chance,
of a bird in my hand,

I'd prefer two in the bush.

Christian decided he wouldn’t take care of the chicken: “I am doing all the killing all the time and you just eat, he said. I am sure the both of you can catch and kill a chicken if you want to eat one.” Fine. I had the distinct impression that the message was not really for me: I was just visiting Christian and Bénédicte at their farm. Christian was city born like I was, but now he was married with 2 kids and was operating a farm with 300 sheep. There was also a huge vegetable garden, chickens of course and a pig, a dog and a cat.

I had spent my childhood summers on families’ and neighbours’ farms, and I had witnessed my share of farmyard killing. Christian was somewhat right: killing chicken, rabbits, ducks and lambs was women’s work. Men’s job began at pigs. But Bénédicte wouldn’t hear any of it. So my presence was probably used to settle a score but, hey, Christian was a long time friend, Bénédicte was great, so we courageously went to the hen house.

The enclosure had been turned to dirt by the 40 or so pecking chickens. Short version: we walked toward them and they went away; so we ran after them and they jumped, cackled and flew all over the place. We then had the brilliant idea to enter the hen house, where half a dozen hens were sleeping on a wooden bar. Suddenly, there was a cloud of feathers, and we weren’t able to catch a single one. We laughed and cackled too, but the fact is that we were really bad at this job.

But we knew Christian wouldn’t do it that day and chicken was on the menu. We finally cornered one against the chicken wire fence, caught it, held it on a log and chopped its head off with an axe. Ewww. End of the story. Job done.
Not.
Sure, it was wrong to panic the birds and the stress was bad for the meat but there was worse: apparently, we had killed a good egg layer when we were supposed to catch an old hen. Bummer.

Later this evening, after a couple of bottles of wine and some excellent chicken, we finally agreed. First: if you know what bird should be killed, kill it yourself. Second: three months later it would be pig killing time. My presence was required.

Upon the world
a change to come
the first of its kind
with more to come
a revolution brought by need
an evolution sought for free
the internets about to change
a company, its stock to stall
competitors will likely fall
as a new age rises and offers it all

Bird of prey
Gathers no moss

Nesting away
In the hair of Bob Ross

Happy little trees
Floating above

Big wedge of cheese
From Russia with love