Birds of a Feather
Poem
On the kitchen table is a dark colored vase that holds a dozen dead roses from Valentine’s Day. A few petals sit scattered around the wooden surface. I pick up the dry round blackened blood-colored circles and toss them in the garbage.
I step outside in my slippers to the dumpster on the corner, I heave the bag high into the sky, and listen to the waste clang and boom against the steel walls of the rectangle. I throw the roses on top of a small mountain of trash bags.
Down the broken gravel paved road in an oversized grey faded sweatshirt and matching ball shorts, I inhale the cool breeze that lightly kissed my neck and exhale the warmth of the sun’s rays that rolled in between the clouds.
A pyramid of birds fly above my head and land in rows along the high wire. Across the complex, in a sole puddle, an oriole stands catching a few early breathes of mid March.
Somewhere my mind went to that old saying about a flock of birds…
