If birds can do it, why can't we?

If birds can do it, why can’t we?

We trace power lines
with our own bodies,
bend our curves to 
crooked straightness,

every connection
volatile
or precarious as a
ladder.  

Do we lack the wings
to change this—or the will?

If it’s feathers we need,
let’s parade in boas and
lift our murmurs
skyward, every voice
taking flight. 

It is time
  for fluid shapes. 
                         It is time
               for thrumming wings. 
                                        It is time
                                   for power lines
   	             	                                  to be buried
        
         	                                                           deep
         	                                                           underground.  

Photo by Nicholas Bartos on Unsplash

The Prompt

This poem was prompted by the sight of a power line, covered in birds. It made me wonder if birds ever lined up perfectly straight like that before humans started building perfectly straight things. Thankfully, birds have not lost their capacity to murmurate, to fly according to their own compass, or to perch in the wild branching of trees. I don’t think we humans have lost these capacities either, metaphorically speaking.

For today’s prompt, I invite you to look around at the many places where human-made structures (or human-altered habitats) meet wildness. Notice the birds on the fencerow, the weeds pressing up through cracks in sidewalks, or the lone dandelion roaring from the middle of a pesticide-laced lawn.

What do you know about the history of the spaces you inhabit? What do you think they looked, sounded, or smelled like 100, 200, or 500 years ago?

Can you still find a hint of wildness in or near your office? Where is the wildness in the grocery store? In the parking lot? In the carefully planned garden or park? In your own body or mind or heart? What happens when the tame and the wild collide?

Let this prompt take you wherever it takes you, friends! I look forward to reading what you come up with.

P.S. I’ll be traveling for the better part of the next two weeks, and I may deviate from my two-posts-a-week rhythm during that time. After all, if I’m too rigid about my schedule, we’ll end up with 104 poems this year rather than 100, and “104 Poems” would be a lousy Substack name IMO. If you find yourself in need of a prompt and don’t get an email from me, consider dipping into the archives. Even if you’ve written a poem for every single prompt I’ve offered this year (wow! to those of you who have actually achieved that!), my guess is that if you revisit an old prompt from this new space that you’re in today, something fresh and perhaps surprising will emerge.