press mute

there’s nothing like the sound

of early birds of spring 

you gotta mute the commercials

to really understand


love. circling

we rode our bikes across the bridge. on windy days we stopped to watch the starlings fly down off the supports, hundreds of them circling in unison. traversing land, sky and water. it was here where, what felt like a hundred years ago, we fell in love.  



like birds without songs

red arrows stitched

in the wing


we are small

we are essential




the birds gave up 

stopped singing they

mulled about their nests 

feathered up and tucked

in. lost in a doomscroll

from hell my phone 

was chirping about

something i friendless

tuned out 


green and blue days

the whippoorwill calls and calls

into the silence. no one answers 

what once they shared

now severed beyond 




i saw visions

a porsche turning circles in the snow

a man pissing on a brick wall barrows

wheeled over hay early

dawn i got chills

a headache

the light hurt my eyes i saw

visions long the melody sorted out

the birds


may 26


the birds 

gave my heart

some hope

ina song 

for the 


birds mia

one day
when all our birds are drones
may we remember who we are
and what

we are

here for

grateful for

and never forget what

we lost


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 @ —