bright
blue bird day
there perched
is a
blue bird jay
he picks at the pine
collecting needles
perhaps for a nest
he pauses, looking
at me
with a flicker of obsidian
I stare back
from thirty feet high
Granite Mountain Lookout
my nest in the sky
his cobalt-capped head
is the first of his kind
to visit me here
and bring
the promise of blue
days of haze
days of smoke
choked Grass Mountains
eyes of red
lashes thick
white with ashes
raspy breaths
lungs filled with soot
mind dazy
soul burnt black
at my wit’s
when will this
end
blue skies today
but what of tomorrow?
bright
blue bird jay
here to say
tomorrow could be another
blue bird day
Grace Schwenk
Grace Schwenk is a writer from the Bitterroot Valley of Montana. When not writing, she can be found getting lost in the mountains with her pack of hiking chihuahuas.