
Small Things
The grey and brown feathered flock twisted their heads
And stood staring in the park today.
Motionless, they gazed at me.
Self-conscious suddenly,
For I dressed all in black.
They must have thought that perhaps
I had come to shoot more than their photo.
Little do they know I’ll go out of my way
To avoid them in the spring
When nesting habits make them chase and hiss.
And while it may seem silly,
I do have a history
With birds attacking and pecking at me.
As a child, I feared to cross the path
Of the crows on the sidewalk.
Go ahead! They’re just birds! my mother said.
As if size were the determining factor.
Put a number on your fear
A weight and measure.
I must have known it then
As surely as I do now.
Often the things that one fears most
Are not easily defined
And in fact,
Have no shape or weight at all.
But they can still keep you awake at night
With their invisible weight on your chest.
In your mind swirling
Like leaves on the wind.
And it can seem like
One endless fall
Full of black crows
And staring geese.
And a voice,
Your own voice now
Urging you,
Go on! They’re just birds!
