A Walk In The Woods

At the foot of a Hawthorn tree, I discover a pine cone sitting in a nest. I wonder how that got in there? A mother bird would surely like to fill this nest with her eggs. A fairy-wren? A thornbill? Besides, I am going to make a wreath for Christmas. Did it just move? Wow. Soft. Heartbeat. The young creature, a precocious master in camouflage and a guaranteed non-candidate for extinction, twitches in the palm of my sweaty hand. I caress its feathers. A teardrop lands on its woody back. I step backwards. Crunch go the leaves. Goodbye little one.

From Guest Contributor Isabelle B.L

Isabelle is an Australian/French author and TEFL teacher.

Mother Bird

I dreamt my mother’s voice became a flood in the hallway, walls bowing to her words. I held a paper bird to shield myself, and it tore in my hands, scattering wings across the shallow floors. Waves of her lullabies chased me through rooms that stretched into the sky, where I ran barefoot over glass clouds, each step echoing familiar fear. When the storm softened, I found a small window of light, where I could breathe without drowning. I reached out, and it grew until it swallowed the echoes, leaving only the warmth of my own hand on my chest.

From Guest Contributor Taylor Brann

Taylor studies sociology at Pikes Peak State College and writes poetry that traces the landscapes of memory, family, and the human heart.