goodbye sweet moment

lying in the light of a summer morning


readying myself for whatever highs and lows the day may bring. making conscious contact. watching my kittens thirst by their eyes for the birds. drawing back the peaks of audio. tails move side to side with the eyes

these eyes are emerald

these eyes are amber

mine are greenblue…

sending this message to space

half life of a city bird

I lived high up in a city beech tree in Boston I inherited from my parents. Mom was a red and dad was a black bird. I displayed her colors in tufts, and they say my song pitched like his. I carried her tonality. I wanted better for myself but i was scared. The cars and trucks made my home shiver; the city made me feel like mine was the only tree. The pollution and city rats were dangerous, and worms were scarce. I was scared of change and scared not to change, flipping and ducking my head in my chest. I left early one morning when car alarms would not stop chirping. I was sure I was a goner. I flapped my wings and flew for several suns and moons on end. I knew not where to. Or for. The currents, unusual to a little bird like me. I broke and fell, rose and tumbled, and slanted across the sky. Nights I huddled helpless and cold in a rain gutter, dreaming. When I could go no farther, I found a hollow in a little birdhouse. Abandoned! What luck! and a fertile ground below. My nest I created of all the diverse fabrics under the sky, in the moonlight, fortified with lead paint chips while humans slept. If I may say, I was already a miracle when I learned to transcribe letters dipping my beak in berries. I wanted to recount and record my travels and knew no other recourse. My beak has not the strength of the woodpecker, and our songs are taken by the wind, so soon they evaporate. I found words the humans wrote on bits of paper I made my nest with.
I copied the many slender forms by my beak with the berry, and learned which forms coupled off with others, and the when and how of it all. I already knew why. I was already a miracle when I discovered your tongue. Now half my life story has been told and I can rest with. It’s a lot for a little bird like me…for a little bird like me it is a lot.
— listen to KatYa read her work @ a local Sacramento Writer’s Group @ —

beleaguered. conversations with a cell phone

beleaguered in the cold

Cell phone go to sleep I do not wish to hear you chirp, you are not the bird in the walnut tree singing the lovely song, no, you are not soft of down and sweet, no, you can be taken apart and reconstituted – you lack the mysterious quality. You are priced, bought and sold! Is this not true? You cannot live, you cannot die, you cannot fly. Cell phone be quiet, please, I have exhausted all your peculiar tonalities and wish only to be left alone. A parcel of time I have allotted to address any and all of those concerns of which you lobby. My associates, collaborateurs, family and friends, all shall have their due, I need not hear it from you. Silence! my dear, for out of silence shall come a storm of swirling letters into words amount to the tale which lies concealed, beleaguered in the cold, and must be lifted up from certain death to be told!      — KatYa —

Oddity #3

See the intergalactic birds amidst our earth birds. Wings made of boron and trace amount leaded. Add a couple elements to the chart which i cannot pronounce. Well. They do not communicate with vox box anyway. Just feelings. Most earth birds became quickly upset and dive bombed the ones from Saturn 9. But the loving blue Jays took them in. They fortified the nests with some twigs they caught in the Milky Way. As a way to give back. These nests, they will last forever.