20 Lines A Day

A Community of Writers and Photographers

Into the Open


Birds sound in the birch tree outside my window,
squawks and caws of blue jays and ravens,
the familiar “birdie birdie” of the cardinal,
a “tut tut” from a robin, and the occasional
“hoo hoo” of the turtle dove

They go about their days
never making note of my coming
and going, buildiing their nests,
laying their eggs, hatching helpless
babies with no announcement
of their arrival

Kids find a baby bird on the
sidewalk, hairless, eyes still closed,
too soon outside the protection of
its egg.  They try in vain to save it,
pour water over its tiny body,
baking in the afternoon sun, feed
worms into its gaping mouth, gasping
for its final breath.  They place its body
into last year’s fallen nest and forget
about it, on to enjoy their next adventure

The turtle dove sits on my windowsill
for at least an hour, peering nervously yet
never offering to depart, dark eyes piercing,
she stares, unblinking, and I stare at her,
and together we ponder what to do,
remain here on this ledge contemplating
each other and the world beyond,
or take flight, entrust the wind to carry us
on its back, permit the ground
to soften falls along the way, when,
startled, I break our gaze to look
behind me, and turning back
to my companion outside the screen,
I find that she is gone

©SpiritLed 2014




We will wait up here in the tree

for the small birds to get their fill.

We will then head to the feeders

that will be chock full

They make such a mess and so many seeds they spill

In our beautiful red outfits they can never say  that we are dull.




All photos were taken through nasty and cold winter windows
I wasn’t going outside to hang in the snow till it was time to shovel.









I’m coming back, o yes, I’m coming back
from drug-induced exhaustion. More like spring,
I open, little at a time, and cling
to daffodil arrangements. Winter black

took all my energy and made me spin
out on my walking paths. I stand now, straight,
again feel able to walk through each gate,
hear melodies of birds, not tuneless din.




Just one more day to go
Yes February will soon be but a memory
We have broken so many records with our snow
I know I show you pretty pictures but trust me it has been dreary.

As the rains fall hard in our yard today
Birds are eating what I have offered them with added fury
Then I watch as they rush back to their fray
I bet when the sun comes back they too will be in their glory

February has been a lot like winters of past
The snow just kept dumping on us blast after blast
Snowfall records have even been surpassed
I am really amazed with all this snow and ice I did not end up wearing a CAST!

Thank you March for coming along hurry please
I will turn a year older wiser as well I am sure
I am actually looking forward to flowers covered with bees
I guess as I reflect upon these words if it was always spring I would be bored.


Dry Spell

My hand won’t write, but worse than that
my mind can’t conjure up the words
that float on air like little birds.
Where’s the magician and his hat?

I’d wish that he might pull a song
from whence the furry rabbits come.
Please give me something, let me hum
a tune, a verse. It’s all so wrong

to be bereft of energy
for writing on this snowy morn.
Suppose ideas will be born
if patiently I wait? O me,

o my, I do not like this state
of wordlessness. Turn on the lamp,
light up the dark of writer’s cramp,
and fill the blankness of my slate.


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