by Katherine Garrison
These birds are always raising the stakes.
When I go out, I want to see a shrike,
but instead, I am surprised by a hawfinch
which are rare to see here, as in red listed,
and I think that’s probably a good reason
to not raze through the forest in front of me
like swifts razor through clouds of gnats.
I wanted to be a bird when I was little.
Arms out, flapping as I jumped from an extra chair
stuffed in a corner of the dining room.
I swear sometimes I rose a fraction,
like the moment a kestrel hovers mid-flight
before diving. Every time I see a tree I think
about climbing it. About lounging among branches,
the leaves in wind rustling against a steady
flow of thought, brushing it along. A magpie
landed on my head once. A friend looking
for food. But I had none. Still, he followed me
through the wood. And I wonder if the reason
I like trees so much is because I wish
I was part bird. Or part tree. To gain a bird’s eye view
would be wonderful. I wonder if birds also mourn
the loss of forest or if they just migrate to another.
And what happens when there’s no forest left?
Katherine Garrison is a private chef and baker originally from the mountains of Wyoming, now living in rainy rural Wales. She often writes short fiction and poetry exploring themes through nature, food, the weird or some mix of these. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in foofaraw, Elegant Literature, Star*Line, Baubles from Bones, Superlative Literary Journal, Variety Pack and others. When not cooking or writing she loves going on long hikes with her partner and their dog, camping, birdwatching, foraging, gardening, and being outside in general.
January House Literary Journal 
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