Wood Stove Starling
Kevin Casey
The winter-long purr
of the wood stove’s over;
but lying cold
this still May morning,
the fire box knocks,
its hollow voice rekindled,
stirred by an urgent flutter’s
fitful rhythm.
Drawn down the creosote throat
of the crooked metal chimney
by the cool and the gloom
that might hide her brood,
a cat's eye slit in the pane
of the soot-stained window
shows a starling flailing
in a nest of spent cinders.
As hinges stutter,
the fine twig bones
and ash-plastered feathers
are caught in a claw-formed hand.
Pulled from that mouth,
then past the porch’s door,
the helpless, silken ember
is delivered, plunging
through sky back to the arms
of the waiting sun.
Kevin Casey
The winter-long purr
of the wood stove’s over;
but lying cold
this still May morning,
the fire box knocks,
its hollow voice rekindled,
stirred by an urgent flutter’s
fitful rhythm.
Drawn down the creosote throat
of the crooked metal chimney
by the cool and the gloom
that might hide her brood,
a cat's eye slit in the pane
of the soot-stained window
shows a starling flailing
in a nest of spent cinders.
As hinges stutter,
the fine twig bones
and ash-plastered feathers
are caught in a claw-formed hand.
Pulled from that mouth,
then past the porch’s door,
the helpless, silken ember
is delivered, plunging
through sky back to the arms
of the waiting sun.